


The Art of Letting Go

by coronaborealis97



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco Malfoy Angst, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Endgame Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Eventual Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Good Draco Malfoy, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter Has Issues, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Harry, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-12-15 07:12:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coronaborealis97/pseuds/coronaborealis97
Summary: An unexpected accident, an old foe. A loss of memories. Eager to protect and help Harry, Hermione and Ron trace his actions and discoveries that led to the attack. Harry's condition and uncovered trails urge them to seek help from Draco Malfoy whom Hermione, despite everything, believes to be the only man able to save Harry.





	1. Pilot: An Unexpected Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a pilot chapter

 

 

 

An owl had arrived that morning with word from Granger.

Draco nearly vomited the carefully brewed mint tea when the sender's name caught his eye. The drowsy haze dispersed with sudden dawn as he quickly went to pace through the possible violations of the magical law he may have committed in the past month. Once he did not return an exuberant greeting of a Muggle pedestrian he had never seen in his life. Or it could've been that unfortunate time he left a tip at Three Broomsticks short for two knuts. But it most certainly was that soggy Monday morning he  _accidentally_  used  _Accio_ to save a child with a pup in front from running to its certain death. (Blond haired woman screaming. The desperation of wailing brakes. Friction-caused sparks gushing like curses.)

 _The angle should've been perfect_.

He was short for a step, and the gathered Muggles had been too preoccupied with staring at the speeding vehicle to notice a shift of his coat. He saved a life that day. A  _Muggle_  life. (Angered mother too, but it mattered less. You could get drunk on feelings - brimming pride in your chest like encrusted gold over a heart. He remembered he had gone to sleep that night pondering if Potter had felt like that.

He looked at the letter with gravely tiredness, sullen and pitying.

He was not Harry Potter. He was not destined to save lives and Ministry seemed keen on reminding him.)

Malfoy steeled himself for the condescending flow of dictated words knitted into sentences the size of an average paragraph. The somber introduction (Neither of them was particularly delighted with the letter, though she might've relished the satisfaction of having it addressed at his name.), the citation of laws he had broken (He registered one, yet Merlin knows how many more supposedly minor ones hid behind its robes.), the date and place of hearing - he prayed for a Friday - ending with a summary of consequences he was to face if he were to disregard the body of law itself, and a topping of title and surname followed by a poor-quality signature to emphasize how large a portion of precious time was spent to note the deviant of his crimes. Conversely, instead of perfectly layered formalities, he found a neatly written string of eleven words in broad handwriting, slightly tipped to the right:

_Harry needs your help. Three Broomsticks at noon._

_Please,_

_Hermione Granger_.

His legs grew warm, urging him to leap away from the table. Only with a glance did he realise he had been diligently pouring the lukewarm liquor down his lap. With an exasperated sigh, Draco reached for the hawthorn wand and muttered an incantation, pointed at the soaking material: " _Tergeo!"_

He watched as cloth instantly dried then proceeded to settle the wand next to the recent issue of the Daily Prophet, tacitly wondering what must've been so important that Harry Potter had to resort to pleading for  _his_  aid through Granger's intervention. Last time he heard of him was in the Exclusive Edition of Daily Prophet marking the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. A signature Skeeter article about the new number of scars on Potter's auror abs and his "disappointingly uneventful love life" with a witty conclusion how, although one wand possessed the ability to defeat the Dark Lord, the other was clearly lacking. Regardless, Potter probably occupied the same position, or was at least still a member of the Auror Department - assuming the world did not require saving. (Yet somehow a world with Harry Potter was ever in need of some kind of saving.)

Sipping the last of his tea, Draco intently glared at the letter as if the degree of narrowness of his brows would force the smooth piece of paper to blurt news on Potter's whereabouts. He was even tempted to use  _Aparecium_ ; however, Granger was not a silly Weasley to out confidential information in a letter that could've been intercepted by anyone. The spell she used, if any, must've been more complex than a simple incantation. Or - he glimpsed at the Daily Prophet, an alien surety rising - she believed it was in fact, well-known.

Draco Malfoy slowly examined the unfolded daily news.

He stood there, awkwardly smiling on the front page, side-by-side with the Weasley and Kingsley Shackelbolt in front of a golden fountain portraying his triumph against the Dark Lord in the Ministry's Atrium. It must've been taken when the two became members of the Auror Office. (Draco was sure he had seen it already; perhaps in one of Rita Skeeter's many articles. But the shading was different; darker, duller.)  _TRAGEDY,_  it read.  _HARRY POTTER SEVERELY INJURED ON A MISSION._

He ripped open the paper, absentmindedly skipping through the news - a Weasley-Thomas-Finnigan love triangle, a testimony of another ex-Death Eater, an ardent article on the rights of house-elves spanning across four pages - until he was staring at the nervously smiling face again. (He breathed, overwhelmed with trepidation.)

His scar still hadn't began to fade at the time; newest images showed it pallid, disappearing with ages like nightmares of war. (They said they would cease. He didn't quite believe them then, at eighteen. At twenty-two, he is still cautious with his trust.)

His eyes fall on blurry frames of St. Mungo's, sliding down Hogwarts walls and shots of Potter's youth, eventually settling on the tinted letters.

_The Boy Who Lived suffers a devastating accident on an unassigned one-man Auror mission._

_The subject of Potter's investigations remains unknown with the Head of the Department refusing to release an official statement regarding the events in question._

_Anonymous sources state that Mr. Potter was admitted to St. Mungo's on Tuesday October 21st, accompanied by his long time accomplices Mr. Weasley, a fellow auror, and Ms. Granger, an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Reportedly under care of Hippocrates Smethwyck, a Healer-in-Charge for Creature-induced injuries, auror Potter arrived covered in "severe-looking injuries" resembling claw and bite marks. The Healer dismissed, rather adamantly, my attempts at uncovering further information about the The Chosen One's condition, invoking patient confidentiality. Nevertheless, Mr. Potter was rumoredly found in Little Hangleton where the Riddle family manor stands to this day. Accordingly, a plausible conclusion for the alleged "accident" of the Ministry's Favorite would be that the Boy Who Lived once more resorted to meddling with the dark artefacts, therby irresponsibly endangering the fate of the entire Magical World as he had done many years ago._

_Rita Skeeter_ (He spat at her name.)

Pieces of brilliant emerald exploded like curses lighting the sitting room. Draco barely moved; elegant fingers tracing feather touches across the poppy gash on his chin. He peered at the shattered green mug, frozen for a moment.

_It happened again._

They warned him it might become a habit in a state of heightened emotions or 'instability of spirit'. Though it was more frequent during the night when nightmares crawled to dream with him. Some nights he would wake up in a room torn to shreds, bare and blood smeared. Others he was shaken awake by the cries of his mother. In the first year or so he insisted on repairing the resultant damage, but after the passing of his father Draco resorted to using the unscratched guestrooms. (Although the unyielding house-elves blatantly refused to house ruins. Remorseful, he sometimes sat hours at dinner eating away all they had cooked.)

They couldn't help him at St. Mungo's. Narcissa had insisted on seeking second opinion, but he dismissed the slightest of her efforts to initiate a conversation on the matter. They claimed it was normal, a consequence of war, a case like many others of his generation. (He saw Pucey once, waiting in the hall. They exchanged a greeting before the Healer summoned him. "The rumors must've been true then," Pansy had told him on one of their check-up dates. "He really did fight in Potter's war.") Yet, rare swore on their honour it would subside.

Hearing the soft tapping of paws against the marble tiles, Draco rose from the chair by the fireplace muttering an incoherent apology under breath. The clock beside the entrance suggested the time to be a quarter to noon, thus he grabbed his wand and headed for the door with an  _Accio_  whispered for the cloak. A faded black cloth flew to his arm. (It still smelled of Lucius even after all the years.)

Wrapping it around himself, Draco Malfoy stepped into the cold November air.

_~x ~_

It was the ninth time she had checked the ivory scars on her forearm since arriving at the Three Broomsticks. ("Fifteen minutes early,"she would yell at Ron later, nostrils aflare. "And he still had the decency to be late. Just because  _I_ had asked for  _his_  help!")

With a fleeting look, appalled at her own act, Hermione Granger slowly tugged the woolen sleeve of her Weasley vest down, taking a gulp of her drink. Seated across the group of curious Slytherin students in the farthest corner of the large inn, she suddenly began to contemplate her choice of a meeting place. Yes, she was aware of Hogsmead's liveliness during winter months and her own "fame" as one of Harry Potter's companions including the Chocolate Frog card bearing her face and name - thus, she thought, awkwardly avoiding the stares, what in Merlin's name had driven her to ask a Malfoy to see her there.

 _Haste,_ she mused guiltily. The wish to protect Harry was clouding her mind ever since Ron's distressed hail on the dreaded Monday night. As soon as she apparated to the given location she knew what was wrong; Smethwyck merely confirmed her suspicion. But despite the obvious physical damage Harry had withstood, neither Healers nor her were able to foresee the effects the mysterious encounter had on Harry's mental state. Having woken up Thursday, October 23rd, Harry Potter claimed to have no recollections of his wizarding status or friends. (Which deeply troubled Hagrid who kept crying into his tablecloth-sized handkerchief. Hermione sobbed too, nestled into Ron's chest in the room beneath the attic, incapable of wringing meaning from the reports - no magical source _,_ no predictable longitude. Hushed promises of bring backs and woulds against the blankets.) Mrs. Weasley tried telling him stories of his first trip to Hogwarts, his stays at the Burrow and quidditch proficiency. Hermione herself tried the old pointing-at-pictures method. The closest to responding she had gotten was with a picture of Sirius - with Harry stating he had seen the man somewhere, only to pull out a dated sample of the Daily Prophet with an alert of Sirius's Azkaban escape. (She felt a shock burgeoning in her chest, a strange weariness welling. Flinching as a heinous word slipped Harry's lips, she muttered an implausible excuse and scurried to weep in the corridor.) Apparently the presentation on his Hogwarts colleagues was a remote success, although not the way Ron and Ginny had hoped.

Convulsing her fingers around the mug, Hermione winced at the swinging of the door. A tall, dark haired wizard trotted in, waving at the gathered bunch at the nearest table. Instinctively, she checked the hanging grandfather clock - five minutes till it struck twelve.

She caught herself tracing the scars again over the fabric of the vest. Recoiling as if burned, Hermione puffed a frustrated sigh at her butterbeer. It had been years since she saw him. And she would have preferred had it stayed so but considering the lack of acquaintances with an understanding of the dark arts she had no choice but to seek his aid. ("Will you be alright?" Ron had asked on their usual elevator rides. Only this one was one member short. She feigned ignorance. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Ron shrugged his broad shoulders, rubbing against the elevator wall. "Dunno. He was...there, you know."

"There where?"she pressed. He observed her for a very long moment.

The doors clanged apart. "Doesn't matter. Good luck.")

_He was in the manor as his aunt kept screeching curses at you._

She still could not suppress the shudders. (She had gone with Neville to see his parents. Alice Longbottom still suffered the tingles, barely noticeable spasms that took flight until the poor woman was twisting on the bed in agony. She had a theory -  _Cruciatus_ curse dealt irreparable damage to the nervous system resulting in all of its victims occasionally 'reliving' the previous experience, similar to the epilepsy attacks in Muggles. Although, based on her own, she was not sure what exactly triggered the attacks.) Aware of Malfoy's helplessness in the situation and the fact it wasn't him directly who had engraved her blood status on her forearm, Hermione remained uncertain whether she was ready to face the nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange. Unsure if she feared his presence would unleash the dormant traces of the curse in her system or just a physical reminder of his aunt, she found unexpected comfort in the masses. ( _Safety_ , she remembered. The Three Broomsticks was one of the few places she felt safe.)

Suddenly, the chirpy chatter faded as Draco Malfoy made his entrance.

Dressed in a slightly oversized black cloak with serpentine green buttons and a silver hat, he stoically nodded at the swamped faces. The tall dark man that had walked in before him was now glaring curses at the back of his head. She noticed the uneasy wiggling of women near the window along with flabbergasted gestures of the sea of students. Rare were successful in concealing their disquietness - excluding Hermione's bulging eyes. Malfoy had extended his long neck, searching the pub for a glimpse of her wild hair. Unthinkingly, she raised a hand as if volunteering - he spotted her soon and crossed the room in long strides, escorted by prying eyes. Hermione did not linger to see their astonishment as Draco Malfoy pulled up his chair to sit opposite the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

"Granger,"he uttered under breath. She took notice of how little of his father stuck to him in the end. Hair and eyes, posture perhaps. The rest was adequately masculine depiction of Narcissa.

"Malfoy."she retorted. "As strange as it may sound, I'm glad you're here."

His cheeks reddened, presumably due to the unyielding bites of November frost. (She noticed a faint, negligible crimson scratch above his jawbone, then swiftly perished the thought.) He leaned back in the chair, politely ordered a glass of firewhisky, then turned to Hermione with a fretful expression.

"I'm late."he stated. "Sorry."

She nodded in understanding, sipping her drink. An air of strained courtesy engulfed them, nearly to suffocate. He kept gripping at the sleeves of his robe, nervously aware of stabbing stares. (His haughty exterior mellowed, though eyes threatened with hexes.) Hermione willed to contain her fidgeting, increasingly conscious of the poking wand pressed between the arm and ribs. Whilst agreeing this was not a reunion of long lost friends, Hermione had certainly hoped they could avoid the unfulfilled silences pleading for words. (She was wrong. Unsaid feelings gnawed at swollen throats, choking harder than the absence of words.)

Madam Rosmerta slammed the order before Malfoy rather adamantly. He gave a disheartened chuckle, peering at Hermione.

"Suitable serving." She forced a smile.

He took an eager sip, then motioned for her to speak.

"Harry needs your help." she began, formally, almost as if addressing an underage offender. "I assume you have heard about-"

"Yes. Skeeter's article."he explained. "And I assume you need my assistence with the dark artefact?"

It was her turn to be embarrassed. "Well - not entirely."

He drank again, grimacing when the blazing liquor tickled his throat. "Granger, I know I've done some -  _unadmirable_  - things," She almost spat the drink. "And I do not run from them, nor from my former affiliations, but you need to know I am  _not_ a walking manual on the dark artefacts."

She appeared unperturbed, although Draco could note the unusual tightness of her lips. "Ron found him just outside Little Hangleton, as I am sure you have read. But I made  _sure_  some findings remained hidden from even Skeeter. As is, Ron snuck into his office today and stumbled upon a file on Necromancy in one of the drawers."

"Necromancy?" he repeated with a hint of wonder.

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "We also think Harry had found whatever he was looking for. However,  _someone_  did too, whether by his own efforts or through Harry, I don't know. What I know is that he and Harry clashed - and it ended very badly."

"How is he?" The small quiver of his lower lip did not escape her; even his shoulders seemed to scupper.

"Awake." she said. "But the wounds were inflicted by a werewolf."

"A werewolf?" he questioned loudly, earning additional attention from the snoopy onlookers. Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes.

"Yes! A  _werewolf_ ,"she said indignantly, leaning towards him across the table in a warning arch. "Now,  _please_ , yell how Harry has no memories of us or the attack and I  _swear_ to Merlin I  _will_  hex you, Malfoy!"

He seemed to overlook the threat by placing his hands near the middle of the table, as if vouching for his own intentions. "Potter doesn't remember?  _How_  is that possible?"

"If I knew that, I would not be here asking for your cooperation."

Draco was equally annoyed. "Why now? You could have owled me after Weasley had gathered more clues about the artefact. Necromancy is, as you and I both know, quite a wide field, Granger. I am not a seer, as you might've guessed."

She looked reluctant, at moments furious, as she inspected him. Even now, five years after the incident with Fiendfyre and Harry saving his arse, Hermione did not know what to make of the boy. Although he appeared genuinely interested in his well-being - including the obvious lack of motif for wrongdoing - somehow she wasn't convinced. She was not fearful either - cautious yes, but not afraid. She felt as if a piece had been missing inside the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy and it caused her to be hesitant to trust him. (She had insisted on his involvement,  _advocated it_  as an obvious necessity - "For Harry," she said to Ginny as her brothers huddled by his bedside. "Harry would have done the same.")

"Granger?"he called her, lowering the firewhisky. She cleared her throat and looked away as if to hide the thought.

"I have requested books on Necromancy from professor McGonagall." she continued perfunctory. "She lent us a few from the Restricted section. Harry didn't use them in his research."

"What did he find?" he inquired tersely, looking at her. Hermione adjusted her seat, pointing the tip of her wand at the squirming group: " _Muffliato!"_ she muttered. Draco visibly relaxed.

"Should've done it earlier."

"Harry never relied much on books." she informed him flatly whilst stowing her wand inside the coat. "And the file Ron found mostly contained previous observances from varied sources. He used Doubling Charm on some pages with Harry's scribbles. He seemed to be particularly interested in some sort of chalice."

"Were there any mentions of a potion?"

She shook her head incospicuosly. "I thought so too - that it should be used for maturing of potions - however, the rest of the page did not add up. It seemed to list ingredients.  _Including_  the chalice."

Draco considered for a moment. "Have you heard of them? The ingredients. Are they known? Easily accessible?"

"Jobberknol feathers and crushed moonstone."she recited. (He reminisced the dungeons, Snape's resounding voice carried across the large classroom. Potter's evident lack of talent to brew even the simplest of potions.) "Same as-"

"-Veritaserum."he added. Hermione agreed. "Necromancy and veritaserum. What has Potter gotten himself into?" he snickered.

"Not exactly veritaserum,"she corrected. "but a potion requiring similar ingredients. And a chalice as one. It would be easier if we could ask him."she said truthfully. A pang of quiet panic enveloped her; time was coursing. "Which," she coughed to gain his attention. He was looking at the dark haired man Hermione saw come in moments before him. Hearing her, he swiveled gingerly. "leads me to my  _main_  point. About Harry."

"Wasn't all this about Potter?" He gestured towards the pub.

"Well, yes" she admitted. "But the chalice was not the only reason I had asked you to see me. I said  _Harry_  needs your help." Malfoy was wearing the most dumbfounded expression she had seen, urging her to continue in a hurry. "He does. Not related to the chalice or what we have discussed - it is more...personal. Malfoy,  _y_ - _you_ are the only person he remembers. He needs you.  _Please._ "

The colour drained from his face in an instant. He gaped as if having seen a dementor. "How could he possibly - Granger, we were never-"

"I know." she said in a high voice, with a trace of authority. "He doesn't remember any of the things you did - or that he did. He just...remembers  _you_ , Draco Malfoy."

"But-"he stammered with his words, in apparent disbelief, unable to fathom that the boy he had wronged was now in need of him. Harry Potter who had refused his offer of friendship at eleven, Harry Potter who nearly killed him then risked his life to save him. The Harry Potter who saved the wizarding world was now in need of saving. By someone, Malfoy was certain, whom he would have never trusted to rescue him. He gulped the last of his firewhisky as if downing a Felix Felicis - it scorched his insides, mingled with the clogging whirlpool of emotions in his stomach. He thought of vomiting, but his standing on the social scale was so low that such an act would have him as member of the underground. (Though an ally within the ranks might benefit Granger's investigation.) His chest prickled whilst his mind emptied. Draco Malfoy felt helpless as he did once in his life, standing on the top of the Astronomy tower, with his wand raised at his Headmaster's chest.

_Dumbledore understood._

No matter how hard he wished to despise him, the wretched old man indeed understood the blind corner he was thrust into. He would have understood this now - the incapacitating doubt sprouting like bones from Skele-gro. He  _should_  help. 'Tis what noble Potter would have done for him. Yet the gnawing truth of not being the right person for the task - of insecurity in the very good in him - was paralyzing.  _He needed to escape._

Suddenly, he stood.

He heard Granger bellowing after him, perhaps casting curses at his retreating form. (Mugs burst and mangled. Beverages flooding like crystals.) He saw faces rising up to meet him -  _judging_  faces,  _expectant_  faces. Draco suddenly felt as if underwater, suffocating just below the surface, somehow always out of reach.

He ran outside - knocked a witch or a wizard, but kept running.

He ran until  _there_.


	2. Obscurus morbus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pilot done!

"Password?" A large, ugly stone gargoyle seemed to be looking at him, expectant.

He was wheezing like a tired old dog after the afternoon hunt, eliciting nothing but a repetition of the same question. His chest was about to blast under the weight of palpitating lungs. (It had been years since his last physical exertion. Now, he was barely able to tell one end of the broom from the other.) His state - twisted at the waist, firmly clutching the knees - had him wondering whether the demented escape from Granger was indeed such a splendid idea. He was lucky to have had fortuitously out-maneuvered her hexes, otherwise his visit to Saint Mungo's would have been imminent.  _Cunning_ , he conceded. A fortunate alternative. Her pleasure would have been tantamount to his own dismay.

"Password?" Statue badgered.

"I-I don't know,"Malfoy croaked, shaking his head. "I-I am just here to -"

"Password?"

"I don't know."he hissed, indignantly. "I am here to talk to- oh, Merlin's pants,  _let me in_!"

"Password?" it demanded.

He lifted his gaze; the carved statue stood peaceful, almost spiteful in its resilience. ( _Like Potter once did._ Brave, noble Potter who died for the world in whose demise his kin played a part. He felt as if penetrated by shards of blazing glass transfiguring to lava in his insides, eating him to ash. Anger and guilt. Fury and remorse. He struggled to conceal the thought, the lingering question like cobweb;  _Did_ he  _feel like this as Potter ceded his life?)_

The candle light flickered. _Again_ , he thought, glancing at his palms; he was wavering.

Exhaling in practiced patterns, Draco considered hexing the creature for an instance, a flick of his wrist and it would turn to muck. But his hand laid cold at his side as he rose, appraising the carving once more. Charmed, no doubt. Perhaps inflicted violence would have even activated a type of defensive magic - mobilised the suits of armor in the vicinity; the possibilities were endless. He suddenly felt immense relief for the prevailing ounce of reason within him.

Soon, he began to prowl the corridor, scrutinizing the walls for an opening, pale hand twitching at the faintest murmur. A year spent probing the school, the ins and outs, memorising hideouts and secret passages, every dust stained corner abandoned and forgotten, and he could not recall ever finding an entrance into the Headmaster's office. ( _Impenetrable_ , he had reported. A monstrous face distorting in a torrent of rage - his father danced on the marble floors like a little boy's puppet.) Obtaining a password had been easy at the time; Snape kept the pretense of being  _his_ man, a favour and he would've had it - but,  _wait_ , he had convinced him.  _Wait_ , he had beseeched. He did. (He suspected him to be Dumbledore's, then. He had hoped that -  _maybe_  - it meant he would not have to dream of blood and broken old bones.  _Selfish_. But he did not yearn for blood at sixteen.)

He halted before the very entrance, aligning himself with the gargoyle.

Lifting the charms was not an option due to vagueness of his knowledge on ancient magic; additionally, he was not fond of the trial and error method for the same reason. (He would rather avoid further experience as a weasel-like mammal.) He considered a disillusionment charm and whiling away the wait for a clueless little terrified student, professor or McGonagall herself, however, time appeared of essence. He was not so sure Granger would take him back after a couple of days, no matter the importance of his person. He was facing a dead end staring back at him.

She cleared her throat soundly, unbothered to disguise her irritability. (He would have recognised her by a sole breath, perhaps a swish of the wand.) Draco turned to find her a broom's length from him, shriveled hands laced at the front of the dark robes. Underneath the well-familiar pointed hat, a pair of bespectacled green eyes examined him, sparking charms. (Five years ago those same eyes watched him stand beside the Dark Lord as she laid her life for the opposite cause, though now devoid of the apparent disappointment.) The thin frame of her lips thinned further until he believed they had vanished in her mouth. He smiled awkwardly, driven by the thought.

"Ms. Granger warned me I could expect you, Mr. Malfoy,"Minerva McGonagall said airily. "but I must say that I am quite surprised. Unpleasantly so."

He sustained a snicker, instead nodding his head. "I am too, professor."he whispered, unsure if she had even heard him. "I came because-"

"You came because of Harry." she interrupted, his name sliding from her tongue with motherly affection. The strain of it displayed her unconvincedness quite plainly. "As much as I do not support Ms. Granger's decision to include you on the matter, I  _will_  openly answer all of your questions."

"I did not come to ask questions," Her eyebrows lifted in mistrust. Draco swore he could feel the physical weight of her doubt pressing on his shoulders. "I came to speak to Dumbledore."

McGonagall looked as if he had just uttered the most blasphemous curse he could muster. "Dumbledore?"she inquired gingerly. (The initial reproach for the lack of title lost in disbelief.) "W-what answers do you seek from Albus?"

He suddenly felt very bare - standing in the abandoned hallway with her, being asked questions he couldn't answer to himself. And no answer he toyed with would persuade her to lead him in; Granger was here before him, her interview surely wasn't scarce. Something inside him fluttered, a faint sensation encircling the heart, tautening as if to crush. Air seemed to be stuttering in his lungs, fleeing in an erratic rhythm; McGonagall's eyes glued to him. A sensation was building in his muscles, rising like smoke. He gripped the fabric of the coat focused on taming it, keeping it in.

In an instant, the old witch was at his side, grasping his shoulder, urging him to look at her.

"Deep breaths Mr. Malfoy."she instructed ushering them both towards the gargoyle.

"Password?"

"Periwinkles!"she shouted impatiently. "Let us through!" The statue leapt aside revealing a spiraling set of stone stairs leading upwards to the oaken double door. Draco registered McGonagall carrying them across, through the thundering pulsation in his head; the door suddenly appeared before him the second he opened his eyes again. They stepped into a large room filled with glistening silver and tables of varying shapes.

McGonagall seated him in a chair before the spindly walnut table whilst she hurried around it, conjuring a glass of turquise blue liquor in a mist of ashy vapour.

"If you would drink, Mr. Malfoy."she pressed, observing him in obvious distress. Draco grabbed it, downing it in an instant - syrupy flavour tickled his taste buds. Unprepared for the coughing fit that followed, he nearly doubled over in the chair, narrowly avoiding the table's edge. Time was trickling and halfway through he sensed that the surge was withering. Releasing the firm hold on the fabric of his robes, Malfoy breathed a rasping sigh of relief.

"When did it start?" McGonagall said sternly, still as the gargoyle as he was heaving.

"When did  _what_  start?"he managed.

He envisioned her rolling her eyes above him. "The instability."she continued sharply. "Your magic being out of control!"

He shook his head, grumbling at unwelcome daze. "Weeks - months after the - the -" he couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence, busying himself with the glass in hand. (He feared that voicing the events of the Battle meant acknowledging what he dreaded he was.) McGonagall's gaze mellowed in understanding.

"We were notified by the Healers in St. Mungo's of the increasing number of our students - or ex-students - that were diagnosed with this - this  _instability_." She plopped into the large chair opposite of him, tugging at the neck of her robes. Strands of grizzled hair escaped the once neatly folded bun, brushing against the square-shaped frame of her glasses as she proceeded to massage her pained neck. "Although I agree that the subsequent traumas must be a fair enough reason for such incidents to occur, I am afraid that, in some cases, the wizard's sickness was taken advantage of. Possibly by being  _\- encouraged_  - by outside sources."

"What do you mean?"

The lean woman sat up slightly straighter, leaning onto the support of her chair. (Draco felt uncomfortably responsible for the discomfort he had caused her.) "The condition we speak of is mostly nameless. If you were Ms. Granger, you would not find it in books under any known name, however, it is addressed as  _Obscurus morbus_."

"What does it do?"he inquired with unhidden interest. "How would someone be able to progress it?"

"Obscuration - as I prefer to call it - is a very  _delicate_  illness. I am sure you have noticed that its occurrence is related to your emotional state - be it the very peak of your feelings or the deepest pit of despair; though I would deem the latter to be more dangerous." She was startled by the rustling from the wall beyond that instantly appeased as the sound drained. Just then, Draco took in the dilapidated appearance of the circular office - the wall was wider than longer, littered with portraits of unknown witches and wizards arching above the sundry tables. He recognised the crooked nose beneath the mane of white hair and the mop of greasy black in the neighbouring frame; the pair appeared to be soundly asleep, much to his regret. He noted an enormous claw-footed desk upon which the Sorting Hat serenely rested, behind it walls thronged with books and strangest of instruments - a glistening stone as if etched into metal, emitting a cloud of silvery smoke that seemed to shimmer like Veela's hair. Although spacious, it looked more like a treasury or a Gringott's vault than a Headmaster's office.

McGonagall's voice came clipped: "As I was saying, Obscuration."

He glimpsed at her, struck by a strange feeling of being watched. "Despair,"he said. "why does it-  _how_  - is it dangerous?"

She looked at him solemnly, as if discussing the darkest of arts. The temperature appeared to have dropped. "I presume you know of the Obscurus."

He nodded slowly. (He could smell the sweetened air of the third floor classroom, packed with Gryffindor's jubilant chatter. An iron chandelier hanging above Potter's and Weasley's heads; a shy light across the scar-flecked face of Potter's favourite werewolf teacher who was vigorously prattling his nonsense. A hand shot in the air; a movement of his finger as if picking a contestant among the ocean of contenders. Granger's pompous chipper providing the ever-correct answer. Goyle's pen drawing lines across empty parchment. The wolf's repetition of Granger's wisdom.

 _A repressed dark energy within a young wizard. Usually a result of neglect of talent - Obscurials, Obscurus's hosts, are usually children bullied into repressing their magic. However, one cannot run away from magic as it cannot from air. Therefore, their power was manifested as a violent, destructive fury often directed at the abuser or the seed of their unhappiness._ )

"We covered the subject,"his tongue slipped. "Third year." She was visibly thankful for being spared of further elaboration.

"You see Mr. Malfoy, Obscurus and Obscuration are similar as they are different."she continued, tugging at his memory. "Meaning they are similar in result and different in... _manner_  of achievement. Obscurus inhabits a young wizard, briefly acquainted with magic, or - in case of Muggle students - utterly unfamiliar with the subject; whereas Obscuration mostly occurs in older, more accomplished wizards as a consequence of traumatising events."

"As you know, Obscurus mostly feeds, like Dementors, on misery."she said. "You must understand, Draco," She drew the wand, slicing the air to produce puffs of thick raven smoke. They faded and re-emerged, united and twined ascending upwards, attracted by the glowing light. With a flit, she conjured a red crossbill bird that glided towards the cloud, innocently pecking what escaped her. Once her curiosity was satiated, she fled for the window by the largest bookcase. Unaware of his lack of attentiveness, Malfoy loudly gasped as the animal was swallowed by black that sprung at her path. McGonagall vanished the scene before he could see what became of it.

"Obscurus is a living creature inside another organism. Their relationship is symbiotic - the host provides food whilst Obscurus provides power to vanquish the enemy. Obscuriation, on the other hand, is an illness that exploits feelings - anger, sadness, it does not discriminate. Yet, some evoke more powerful reactions than others. Anger, while involuntary and quick-brewed, is easily tranquilized in contrast to...desperation, per say. Erupting magical power is more destructive. The outcome of both is an extremely dangerous individual that can, if not properly nursed, become something I would not dare dream of."

"Can it be cured?"

"You have to learn to live with what you've done, Mr. Malfoy."she said seriously. "I am afraid there is no other way." She steered the freshly conjured potion closer to his end. Draco searched her slightly gaunt face for a trace of indication.

"Calming draught."she explained. "Might keep your emotions leveled, at times."

"Thank you."

Her lips pursed. "If you were still the man you believe you are, Draco, you would not have come here in the first place."

"I-"

"As for Harry,"she interjected. "He needs you, as you have been informed. You better get on the restoration of his memories or-" A fleeting grim look passed her features, fading abruptly. A forgotten remain quivered at the sharply etched trail of a small wrinkle at the corner of her mouth - his own eyes darkening in dubious response. ( _Granger_ , blood was throbbing in his head. McGonagall must have pointed her at something.) She hacked tersely.

"Furthermore, I would advise you to hurry,"she indicated the small pocket-sized clock positioned on the table. "I hear St. Mungo's visiting hours were recently limited."

He couldn't suppress a smile that crept up his face. (Honest and effortless, despite the inner protest.) He stood wordlessly, clumsy with his movements.

"Careful."McGonagall warned when he reached the door. "Take care, Mr. Malfoy."

His head twitched stiffly, much to her amusement.

 _You too professor_  hanging weakly in the air.

_~x ~_

He was leafing through ripped articles Hermione had been supplying him with for the last five days when Ginny walked into the room with news of his discharge in favour of private care.

"Mr. Smethwyck said you will heal normally."she chatted from her usual place at the foot of the bed. Peeking sunrays made her seem like living fire absorbing the last of air in the room. (There was a pint of lingering intimacy in the way her cheeks reddened as she laughed - a rich sound that filled the room until he could see no one but her; freckle-sprinkled Ginny Weasley in too tight trousers and sunflower tee shirt sneaking grinning glances at his form. He would sometimes stare at her for hours on end as Hermione recounted the events he had, allegedly, participated in. She would sporadically pipe in with a remark about certain spells or his quidditch prowess -  _how you zipped by him, Harry!_ or  _And then Angelina..._ ,  _Do you remember when Alicia_... - and he wished he could say he remembered just to see her laugh again. But mostly he would wonder, as she would sit there, why he wasn't sensing the universal pull Fleur had told him of when Hermione had asked her about the first time she met Bill.

He was supposed to  _know_  - and Harry did not only know nothing, but he also  _felt_  nothing except admiration for the pretty girl that was Ginny Weasley. And he was thoroughly sure it wasn't the memory loss.)

"So, mom sent me to take you to the Burrow."she declared with a deliberate stop as if asking for his opinion on the matter. Harry said nothing, turning the paper to meet with the emaciated face of Sirius Black for the umpteenth time.  _BLACK STILL AT LARGE_  was printed in a curve an inch above the man. He had read it thrice already, twice with Hermione's guidance and elaborate speeches on the faulty legislative system, and once with Ron and Mrs. Weasley who was abnormally silent throughout the visit. He had memorised the article by heart, yet no matter how long he stared he couldn't, in his right mind, grasp the fact that Black had been like father to him. ("Your father's best friend!"Hermione had corrected him in a quavering shout that spooked even Ron the first time the word  _criminal_  toppled out of his mouth. Harry's chest stiffened at the sight of tears in her eyes. "He would never-  _How can you even think_ -"

Ron prised himself from the door frame before Harry could even shift, and draped one arm across her shoulders in a manner the latter recognised as practiced to the point it was instinctive. Somberly, he pondered how great a pain they must have faced for such a gesture to become ingrained.

"Sirius,"Ron whispered earnestly, drawing her closer, lips brushing against her hair with unhidden affection. "valued friendship, mate. He valued your dad.")

"Harry!" Ginny called him. He stirred sober, glancing up at her. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah,"he hurried. "Yeah, I am." He smiled pensively, momentarily engrossed in Sirius Black's eyes. He thought he had seen a spark, a glimpse of something eerily familiar - but the longer he stared the more coincidental it seemed.

"So, do I pack your bags?"she joked, gesturing towards a neatly folded pile of two shirts and washed out trousers Mrs. Weasley had brought the other day with a wistful expression. "Mom's already prepared you a bed in Ron's room."

"Thanks."he said. She nodded, fiddling with the rest of the articles that had spilled as Harry straightened in a cunning attempt to deceive her into believing he was present.

"You're still looking into it?"she said. "Sirius, I mean."

He nodded. "I don't really understand it."

Her forehead creased - she huffed a laugh. "You mean, you don't believe he didn't kill your parents?"

"I don't know what I am supposed to believe."he admitted, rapidly folding the Quibbler article titled  _SIRIUS - BLACK AS HE'S PAINTED?_  and shoving it inside the mokeskin pouch already occupied with baby pictures and his mother's letter; including the torn piece of paper where he had scribbled the address of the only person he remembered.

"We could help you find out."coaxed Ginny. "My parents and brother were members of the Order, they knew Sirius better than any of us."

 _Not better than mine,_ he thought.  _And Remus. And Peter Pettigrew._

"I thought we had resolved it."he confessed, jittery meeting Ginny's gaze. "I don't want to trouble your mom any further than I already have."

She rolled her eyes dramatically; Harry thought, for an instant, that they might've gotten stuck.

"You git."she said playfully. "Mom's already told you you're like family. Besides, I don't think she'd be relieved with you wandering the Muggle streets in your current condition." He knew she was referring to his nonexistent memories and it made him rather affronted. The fact he had scarlet scars the size of an average wooden stick ("Wand, Harry,"Mrs. Weasley waved it around him carefully. "Used to produce magic, dear.") covering his neck and torso was a secondary inconvenience.

He squashed the papers between his fingers, causing them to rustle against one another.

It wasn't about them. It wasn't about him either.

He was squandering time locked away from sight in that white room were everything abode by laws of universe he couldn't comprehend in spite of determined lessons. They fed him stories about Voldemort and Dumbledore and gray murderers; his own heroics sounding hyperbolic, attained by someone else, distant and unknown. (Albeit the boy in pretty pictures, squeezed among dozens of merry teenagers, resembled him strikingly. He couldn't argue with Hermione when she tried to rouse a rational explanation on the subject out of him.)

However, they didn't understand - or were unwilling to - his thirst for discovery. He was tired of revolving words, flashing pictures and growing stashes of books on practical magical knowledge. He yearned for palpable evidence - he wanted to deduce with his own two eyes; smell and reminisce, feel and  _understand_. It was something he had to do _. By himself._

He had the right to know. He had the right to decide how he  _wanted_  to know.

"You can't devote your lives to trying to restore me, Ginny."his voice was acquiescently low. "You don't even know if you  _can_  fix me."

He heard the pages shuffle to the floor.

In a lasting moment there was utter silence, then she angled closer to be coloured in twilight by the setting Sun. (He might've believed in magic then.) "All your life you wanted to do stupid things alone - the Horcrux hunt, killing Voldemort...You never planned anything because you always thought it was going to be you and you could work something out. Hell,"she chuckled. "your stupid chivalry walked you to Forbidden forest!"

"You thought you could protect us by dying - and in a way you did, Harry, but...sacrifice in love is mutual. I  _know_  you have to do this. But what we are trying to convey is," He heard a clamour in the hallway - roaring shouts and scurried steps echoing closer. "You don't have to do it alone."

They jumped apart as the door flew open in a sequence of loud thuds and a dark clad man plunged inside, screeching  _Colloportus_  as he collapsed against the wall. Ginny sprang from her seat readily, wand drawn and directed at the unexpected visitor; Harry saw glimpses of dishevelled blonde hair and prominent emerald buttons attached to the robe.

"Who are you?"she said fiercely. The figure shook its head, panting, arms raised in surrender.

"A moment Weaslette,"he uttered. Blood surged to Harry's head - his heart launching into motion. He felt petrified, yet inching closer to the edge so that he nearly toppled over. "Can't you see I just came from battle?"

"Malfoy."Ginny gave him a name - and Harry's head almost exploded. He was on his feet, struggling to keep his breathing casual whilst his mind raced with images of a thin, pale face staring down at him with a mocking smile; followed by the same boy, frightened and bloodied, spread-eagle on the floor, crying; brandishing his wand - again, just looking at him. Grey.

_Grey and silver and green._

His head was slit open - he had to wrestle off the urge to physically hold it from bursting; Ginny's hand felt petal-light on his.

"Are you okay?"she said worriedly. Draco Malfoy rose from the floor, fretting over grime on his coat with a disgusted expression, gaining the witch's attention.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she leveled her wand with his head again. In a resentful response, Draco pocketed his own, but Ginny was not the slightest bit convinced. "Hermione updated me on your little show at the Three Broomsticks."

He glowered at her, a ghost of blush blossoming on either side of his nose. "Mind you, I had somewhere I needed to be."

She snickered pugnaciously. "Keep telling yourself that."

Draco's eyes fell on Harry, the latter's breath hitching in his throat. He felt himself drifting; one second he was staring at winded face of Draco Malfoy, the other he was seeing a young boy pestered by a weirdly dressed lady. Harry had to grasp the adjacent iron headboard of his hospital bed to thwart himself from collapsing.

"Hello, Potter."he said simply.

"Hello." His torso was hammering, deafening the surroundings. (He looked just as he remembered him, not a day older - just devoid of the sullen expression he wore during the impossibly long hearings Harry would idle away seated in the farthest corner, observing to intervene if need be.

 _But...why?_ )

"Granger asked me to come. But apparently," he eyed Ginny's unfaltering wand. "I am not as welcome as I thought. Plus the Healers - stunned one, or two; they really need to change those visiting hours - but I'm here."

"Good."she said, lifting Harry's clothes from their place on the chair and hurling them at the tall green bag of illustrious design. "Cause we were just about to leave."

"Ginny," Harry registered himself speaking, more calmly than he had priorly visualized in his mind. A sudden heat had seared to his head, accumulating around a single point, just above the right eye. "I'd like to have a word with - with Draco."

"You can't be serious!"she scoffed incredulously. A glimpse at Harry and she appeared to have deciphered the lawless vortex of his thoughts. "Harry, he was a  _Death Eater_!" (Black smoke. A snake's head.) Harry pressed further into the supporting bar.

"Not willingly, Weaslette." Malfoy hissed. (Courtyard. A gaggle of students. Connected limbs, painful impact.) "While you were prancing away at your wolf brother's wedding _I_  was forced to  _torture_ people!"

"Forced?" She trod alarmingly close to his face, red hair flailing with each step. (Stadium. Mr. Weasley - orange and green.) "Were you also forced to bully people with that froggy witch? Were you, perhaps,  _imperiused_  into terrorizing young students into obedience?"

He gritted his teeth in an attempt to mollify himself. (Sink. Sobs. White shirt and blonde hair evident from the doorway.) "You can't know, Weaslette -"

"Your father cannot be your excuse for everything you've done!"

"PEOPLE CHANGE!"he exploded (Colours. Tumbling pieces of...walls?) - Mrs. Weasley's purple vase by the window shattered with a piercing splash. Their foreheads met, shoving and retracting, dangerously nearing the window.

"I don't run from what I did, Weasley, and I admit half of it was of questionable morality-"

" _Questionable?_ "she hollered, throwing her arms in the air. "You devoted your life to shaming him!"

"And you aimed to get in his pants!"he bellowed, motioning at Harry's perplexed expression. Ginny was livid. " _I wish he was mine, he's truly divine_  - ring a bell, Weasle-"

Malfoy swallowed the rest of his sentence as Ginny sent him flying across the room and into the wardrobe by the bed, with a sharp clonk. He slid to the floor with a heavy groan, buried in planks and crumbs of wall paint. (Blood and water.  _Murder!_ ) Ginny was fuming and, just when Harry thought she was about to hex him again, doors were blown away with a scream and Hermione and Ron burst inside, clutching their wands.

Upon the sight of Ginny's slender form arched above panting Malfoy, Ron's eyes widened and he lurched himself at the closely held wand. Ginny gasped, attempting to wriggle away from him. Placidly, Hermione scuttled to Harry's side as she noticed his anguished state.

"Harry!"she said, grasping his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, though stupefied. Behind her, Ron reluctantly released Ginny who was now stashing her wand into the back pocket of her jeans, then offered a hand to trashing Malfoy among the debris. (Steady hands mending gashes.) He welcomed the help warily.

"Feeling better now, Weasley?" he groaned once on his feet. Ron swished his wand to clean him, earning a mumbled gratitude.

"I've been wanting to do that since first year."she announced complacently. Malfoy did not share her enthusiasm. "Got something to brag about to George for the rest of the month."

Harry's eyes found Draco's own - a spark in gray - for the first time and his nerves set on fire; the world was quaking, spirals of gray and white fusing into black. ("Is Draco alive?" A tickle against his earlobe, less then an inch apart. A female voice devoid of face. "Is he in the castle?"

"Yes.")

"Harry!" Somebody was crying, clad in black veil, more remote with every breath. "Snap out of it!  _Harry_!"

(Jet black eyes. Rugged veil - a trace of final smirk branded in his retinas. He recognised every second, every shallow breath he drew while watching him perish behind the ancient doorway; fully aware. Harry felt pain in his rib cage, a surging frenzy in which all sense was lost. In a second, he was bolting across steps - a boy crumbled to the ground - the chamber lit with fireworks; exultant roar of a woman clad in black resonating like a lone wolf's howl. A sight of white whirling toward the dais.

"SIRIUS!" A cry ripped from his body, rumbling in his chest. "SIRIUS!" he wailed, restrained by trembling hands exuding of ink and fresh parchment.

"He's gone-"

"NO!"he wrestled, reaching for the curtain where Sirius had gone.  _Hiding!,_ a thought sprouted, a speck of hope he uselessly clang to like a dying man.  _Yes, just hiding, waiting, lurking for the right moment!_

"He's dea-"

"HE - IS - NOT - DEAD!"he was shrieking like a wounded animal; twisting and whimpering in a patched up coat of a boney shoulder. "SIRIUS - NO - LET GO!"

 _He's coming!,_ he kept crying.  _Sirius would never..._

"He's coming!" Tears dimmed the flashing jets on the battleground - they looked like marbles shot in children's game.  _Please...PLEASE!_

"He'll come..."

 _But he didn't_.)

He woke up in St. Mungo's to voices arguing in subtle whispers.

"I assure you,"a man claimed. "That is the only way."

Hermione was protesting - a heated argument about  _Ministry's job; Ron and I can't; Ginny has plenty of work with the Holyhead harpies_  - a series of resignatory moans ended in a series of implorations.  _There has to be another way: I am afraid there are no more, Ms. Granger._

"I'll do it."he said, introducing a peculiar stagnancy into the room. Harry was pleasantly surprised to hear him. "I'll take him."he restated, surer.

Limbs untangled. He heard steps skidding to stop.

"Mate," Ron began. "He needs constant attention. He would have to stay - hell - move in there. I know we asked for your help, but we can't ask you to flip your life apart because of something you didn't-"

"I am the  _only one_  who can!" Malfoy shouted above the hissing plea to remain silent. "Granger said it. Somebody has to find out who did this. Merlin's hell, I won't kill him - but that something; it just might."

A commotion - Ginny's voice mumbling curses underneath Hermione's violent sniffles.

"Listen, Malfoy-"

"No,  _you_  listen Weasel!"he said. "You are acting as if there aren't any options. I'm giving you one, Weasley! Not for any of you. For Potter."

_For Potter._

"Where'd you take him?"Ron shouted. "In your Manor? Sure, plenty of happy memories there."

"Grimmauld place." Hermione suggested in an undertone. Murmurs subsided. "You can take him to Grimmauld place."

"Hermione-"

"I, too, am not delighted, R-Ron, but h-he's right!"she croaked, surprised at the amassed authority in her own voice. "There's no other way."

"Take him to Grimmauld place."


	3. Innocence and grief

If there was something Hermione Granger utterly despised, it most certainly were work time interruptions to which Ron Weasley exhibited profoundly tenacious proclivity.

The second she had heard scurried steps ticking through the marble hallway throng with  _Muffliatoed_ offices, her heart had promptly leapt to mirror the erratic rhythm of her brown Self-spelling quill. Sensing the appalling chill of familiar dread seeping into her bones, she caught herself wishing the resounding gait to belong to her vicious superiors or Pansy Parkinson's newest fling of an intern; but the frenzied haste of thudding steps and the customary barging-without-knocking were too well known to be coincidental. (Years of friendship with a certain duo and months of war had taught her trouble could come in most unexpected of times; whilst Ron's distress taught her heart to ache in worry for Harry.) Having memorised the amount of time it took him to reach the door of her residence at the end of the hall, Hermione used the slightest bits to prepare herself for the upcoming news. It had grown to be a habit of hers, especially during the last couple of weeks following Harry's accident, turning more frequent with Malfoy moving in with him to Grimmauld Place.

The events of the past Tuesday still prickled like fresh wounds. Hermione couldn't pluck from her mind the image of Harry trashing on the white floor as screams of Sirius's name ripped from his body while a mysterious force shed ruin; he had collapsed after an agonisingly long time and Ron and Malfoy's fruitless efforts to restrain him. A dozen of Healers had ushered her out before she could've even reached him. A hail for help had been issued to the Ministry, requesting evacuation of every patient in the ward. Gwain Robards had strut in around midnight with a flock of Aurors at his tail, whispering excuses to Smethwyck and Ron before heading for the Ground floor. They had heard shouts and flashes, a commotion staged in a desperate attempt to cover up the incident.

("A severe case of  _Obscurus morbus_ , I am afraid."Hippocrates Smethwyck informed them in the vacant hallway of the dilapidated first floor. She had not seen such desolation since the Battle, and terrified was the least she was. "Or, perhaps - though I am not entirely sure - a  _very_ rare case of Obscurus."

"How can you not know?"Ron said exasperatedly. "You're a bloody Healer!" His forehead had shrivelled and he was pacing between Malfoy and Ginny like rabid. "Besides, what even is that  _morbid thing_? No one has ever heard of it!"

"An unrecorded illness."Malfoy explained from his spot at the doorway, subtly glancing towards Harry's sleeping form, thereby earning the unwanted attention of the huddle. Hermione could feel Ginny's patience cracking. "It is a fairly common after effect of serious trauma."

Ron muttered a suggestion where Malfoy could shove his effects and trauma.

"Which, in Mr. Potter's case,"Smethwyck beamed, thankful for Draco's educatedness. "must have been formerly present and is presently being enhanced by the memory loss."

"So, the sudden  _outburst_ ,"Ginny interjected, gesturing towards the broken-down room. "was caused by suppressed memories?"

"It is a possibility." She narrowed her eyes in frustration. "Mr. Potter was re-living the loss of his godfather which must've been a very traumatic experience for him. Thus I believe that the burst of magical power that had caused the devastation of the objects in the ward could potentially gain in strength depending on the severity of the effect the trauma had on him, or even on his emotional state regarding success or failure of regaining memories. Of course, the strength of his magic must also be taken into account - the force you had witnessed is merely a display of a portion of strength of Mr. Potter's magic."

"So you're saying that...he's a time bomb?"Ron whispered, slanting to unhook himself from the grasp of stray Mandrake's leaves with a grimace.

"I am afraid so."he confirmed gravely. Hermione could feel the heat in her cheeks, the prodding pressure within her eyes. She had knotted her limbs tighter around her body to distract herself from the crowding mixture of emotions. Ron, who had given up on his freedom and had seized the jardinier under arm, went back to prowling the corridor in a state of absolute incredulity. Malfoy's gaze was fixated on a spot mere inches above Smethwyck's head and he appeared to be peering into an abyss none could see. Ginny was trembling, lids pressed shut.

"Although,"he spoke after a minute and his voice had frozen them like statues. "the quicker the memories return, the less likely is the repetition of the attacks."

Hermione could feel the onrush of surety swelling in her brain as a thought was sparked to life. The confusion had instantly drained from her, melting into boiling anger. "You are suggesting we see it through despite the risk of him blowing up and killing us all? Perhaps even destroying the world!"

"Well, the best possible solution would be to follow the current trail had left you."he said. "His godfather."

"I  _refuse_  to risk his life for suppositions!"she screeched, pushing Ginny's comforting hand off her quivering shoulder. She noticed Malfoy draw his wand in anticipation of her deranged advance. "There has to be another way."

Healer grumbled.

"Right now it is the only one that could bear the slightest results, Ms. Granger."he retorted pointedly. She was prepared to lash at him again, but Smethwyck regained the control of conversation with practiced ease. "Memories will return eventually, there is no doubt about that. But it is  _how_  they return that could make a difference between life and death."

"Oh, right,  _manners_  save you from death."Ginny piped in sardonically. "Guess Tom Riddle's diary didn't know that." Ron whirled, aghast, nearly plummeting the pot.

"If my age had taught me anything, Ms. Granger,"Smethwyck continued calmly. "it is that the line separating the two is thinner than hair of a Unicorn."

Hermione sneered.

"I've been to  _war_ , Mr."she spat, punctuating every meaningful word with a menacing point of her finger at the ground. "I've seen  _death_  more terrifying than any other - I've destroyed things you can't even  _imagine_! I've lived months -  _years_  - with fear as my enemy and comfort that I was still alive. And all of it could've been avoided had you just  _listened_  to what Harry had been saying for  _years_!"

"Addressing the culprits of the past will not in any way help Mr. Potter."Smethwyck reminded her reproachfully. "You have survived terrible things and learned nothing. In memory of the past, you should be striving to evade it, Ms. Granger, not repeat it."

She was left gaping and gawking at him in stunned silence Ron cut across to reiterate: "Bring the memories in controlled conditions - there's a chance he lives. Leave everything to fate - he dies and we all die with him?"

Smethwyck nodded, content his point had finally came across. "Though, I would add  _the world_ among the possible dead, Mr. Weasley."he suggested. Hermione busied herself with glaring holes in Ron's head.

"Blimey."

"But we can't,"Ginny interfered, looking at him. "He needs constant care. Hermione and you need to- there are  _matters_  you have to resolve!"

"I'm afraid there's no other way, Ms. Weasley."Smethwyck persisted, intercepting Malfoy's reply. "The situation is very simple - either he lives, or he dies.")

The stomping had vanished a second before her doorway, slipping into Pansy Parkinson's office.

Her quill had fallen on the hardwood table as she allowed herself a moment of relaxation, leaning into the support of her chair. She hadn't relished the silence in years, finding comfort in the faintest sounds - Ron's breath and heartbeat, Ginny's laughter and Luna's soft hums. Harry's fingers carelessly combing through the jet black mess. (Hermione couldn't pinpoint the precise instant her perception of noises grew into synonyms of life. Nevertheless, she kept catching herself seeking confirmations in the night to ward her nagging fears.) Her fingers slid of their own accord to trace soothing circles across the length of her forearm - the tingles had abated with relief.

She had been carrying fright as an accessory for too long; Harry's accident served merely to awaken what she hadn't fully perceived. He kept reminding her Voldemort was dead each time she popped up at his apartment with the most novel excuse she could gather, just to stop her pained heart from tumbling to the pits of her gut.  _I know, Harry_ , she would reassure, thrusting unimportant files in his open arms.  _But I really need to sort those through and Ron isn't exactly helping._  Harry would fumble with feeblest excuses before finally allowing her to settle at the dark floor with a smug smile. She missed those evenings. She missed Harry.

So Hermione did the best she knew - browsing books and scrolls, absorbing information of questionable utility.

Her research had led her nowhere until the day Fleur Weasley rapped at her door with an ornate chest bejeweled with alabaster pearls. Hermione was quite flummoxed when the older witch told her to open it - and thoroughly befuddled at the sight of dozen neatly arranged leather-bound notebooks with Fleur's swirly, stark handwriting inscribed at cover pages.

Waxing Crescent; First Quarter; Waxing Gibbous...

"Are those-"

"Diarees."Fleur named them ushering the largest, titled  _Waxing Gibbous_ , into Hermione's grasp. "First quarter weel soon be o'er. I suggest you read theez." She must've noted the younger witch's darting eyebrows at her offerings - and had thus continued, looking rather affronted.

"Bill told me 'Arry was attacked by a werewolf and zat you don't know if the woonds are," She halted as if choosing the least viciously sounding expression. "like 'iz. He said 'arry didn't e'zeebeet any signs like he did - but my  _maman_  used to say  _Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir_ ; better to prevent than to cure. Though I am not sure if this  _can_ be prevented, I wanted you to 'ave it so you could track the changeez."

Hermione was rendered speechless, staring at the contents of the chest.

"I-I don't know what to say - Fleur, thank-"

She waved her head dismissively. "'T was the least I could do for 'Arry. I will be forever greatfull zat 'ee saved my leettle seester's life."

Once she had found herself placid enough to converse, Hermione ceded to intrigue.

"If I may ask - where did you get those?"she said, examining the one already in hand. Fleur let a fleeting laugh.

"I wrote 'em."she answered and Hermione knew she was right for the pages were packed with the same stark letters as the front. "Eet started after Bill's accident. I wanted to 'elp 'im, so I tasked myself with writing down every change I 'ad noticed. Later, I added solutions to any problem."

"This is marvelous, Fleur!"she squealed in unsustainable excitement. Her chest was hammering wildly at the brilliance of books before her with meticulous explanations on how to counter any seemingly irreparable change in a bitten wizard - and Wolfsbane potion was just a slight portion. "Oh, you should have them published!"

A rosy glow tinted Fleur's cheeks.

"Some of it was written with Reemus's 'elp."she confessed, avoiding Hermione's rue-filled face at the mention of the man. "'ee was very kind, always willing to 'elp. 'Ee was also very obliging when I 'ad approached 'eem with my plan - almost thrilled at the idea."

"Werewolves  _are_  dangerous, 'Ermione." She threw back the long silvery mane with conviction and glanced at Hermione. (Granger was reminded of a Triwizard champion that had stood against a Common Welsh Green with nothing but a feeble sleeping spell and searing conviction.) "But they are sick. And every sick person needs 'elp."

She had owled the notes to Draco right after Fleur had left and settled to write another letter to Neville Longbottom who - strangely - hadn't responded to her previous ones that painstakingly dealt with Harry's accident and condition in hope for a grain of advice. On her visit to McGonagall she was met with a terse reply after inquiring about his whereabouts -  _Abroad_ , she had offered. But abroad had been such a vague term Hermione was left dabbing in the dark. Luna hadn't heard of him since the week before the attack (Which Hermione found to be most curious.) and Ginny claimed Hannah Abbott had wordlessly abandoned her post as Madam Rosmerta's trainee - but none of them were close to Abbott to inquire further without rising unwanted suspicion. She had even turned to the substitute teacher who fervently insisted on ' simply doing her job'. Afterwards, Hermione had investigated all Ministry governed means of transport - and dearth of evidence additionally strengthened her inkling of Neville's silent removal from the state. She had a couple of theories, but the most plausible one included Harry and McGonagall and undertaking necessary measures for the protection of the Wizarding world - which tied into Neville's involvement with Harry's case.

Her eyes grazed the detailed analysis she had been scribbling since the end of the shift and the throat-lumping feeling sprouted anew. She woke every day with more mysteries and went to bed with double the number - a number that surely outmatched the hours she had dawdled by snoozing or sleeping the previous week. Unlike fatigue and headaches, smothering in her chest couldn't be mended with potions - it needed truth and evidence, a thing she couldn't deliver. The info on chalice Harry seemed fixated on was minimal - an ambiguous description of a runic text inscribed in its middle, unsupported by drawings or pictures. She was also unable to uncover any leads on the potion or the effects of at least a dozen herbs enlisted in the instructions, which was one of the reasons she had sought Neville's help in the first place. Ron was busy with the new case Kingsley had personally entrusted him with, and in the moments he wasn't bursting into her office or working, he was stealthily overseeing the work of Robard's unit on Harry's case. The recent report included the inability to identify the werewolf after one week undercover mingling with the sort. Ron had apprised her of asking Bill for cooperation to which the latter responded with a solemn promise, possibly encouraged by Fleur. It had been five days. And Hermione had never felt further from an update.

The whiring in the hallway was strangely reminiscent of the buzzing of bees.

Hermione thought of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and their usual mishandlings. However, when the humming didn't subside over the course of several painful minutes, Hermione was beyond ready to jinx the culprit to Voldemort's grave. She was vehemently reaching for the wand when the door to her office flew open, and instantly closed, to reveal Ron Weasley's crimson face - whom Hermione had almost reflexively jinxed - accompanied by Neville Longbottom and a very vex looking Pansy Parkinson who had conjured a fine bottle of firewhisky along with four silver cups, and was deliberately pouring the liquor without so much as acknowledging the intrusion.

"Trust me, Granger,"she said, her voice blending with Ron's desperate attempts at explanation. "You're gonna need it."

"-and I didn't have no one else to turn to except for Parkinson, because-"his lips trailed off, but Hermione was not following after the initial syllable. She was appraising Neville with roving eyes and a mixture of exhilarant thrill, evident in the drumming heartbeat, partnered with an ominous kneading in her stomach. Neville returned her gaze with an apologetic expression and slightly pinkish ears Hermione had attributed to the blustery evening.

"Sorry I didn't reply to your letters, Hermione." he said, finally quelling Ron's incoherent blabber. (An act Ron wholeheartedly appreciated.) "I was - well,  _we_  were, me and Hannah, - in France. She's pregnant and what happened had greatly shaken her, and we were advised to 'get away for awhile' so..."

A whoop of joy sneaked to her lips at the news, while Pansy Parkinson smirked quite loudly although endorsed in her drink. (It might've been her second glass already, Hermione had assessed by the level of liquor.) Her presence was jabbing into her head like a dull knife.

"What are  _you_  even doing here?"she accused bluntly with a dark look. "If you even  _think_  of selling us out, I'm more than ready to slither an earwig up your arse."

Pansy cackled with delight.

"Oh, I'd love to see that." She took note of the warning dabbing of Hermione's wand against the alphabetically arranged files at the edge of the hardwood table. The display seemed to have inspired her tongue.

"Weasley here came to my office two days ago on  _accident_."she said firmly. "Seemed fishy then, but you're right next door so I let it slide. Then, he shows up today with a vomit-inducing fright on his face -"

"Oh, sod of Parkinson!"Ron blurted, gaze slowly travelling to Hermione. "It's not every day you go to snake's lair!"he added defensively.

" - and starts nattering about a Portkey and Longbottom; took me ten minutes to realise he actually fixed a timed Portkey into my fucking office so he could get Longbottom to you!"

"I didn't break any rules!"he yelled. Sensing that the statement had peaked Hermione's fury, he approached the table the closest he could without having to sit on it. "Bill helped me. I wanted to bring Neville here after what he's told me."

"It was dangerous!"she argued back. "We don't even know if someone from the ministry is involved! What if they notice? They could kill us - or fire us!"

"The precautions were undertaken."echoed the serious voice of Bill Weasley at the door, beside a frowning Ginny, both of whom had sidled into the room without Hermione noticing, but the grain of hope glistened to life at the sudden realisation. The pair sauntered over, towards the middle, with sullen looks. "Kingsley's on guard. We chose the time very carefully; the less people see Neville, the better." He turned to leering Pansy who was eyeing Ginny with great interest.

"Your office seemed the safest place for those reasons. It was Ron's idea - I seconded it. I'm sorry if we've inconvenienced you, but according to Ron's calculations,"he shot him a disapproving look. "you were supposed to have left the office by the time of Neville's arrival."

Parkinson was simpering coquettishly. "Should've sent your sister. Would've worked wonders."

Her comment seemed to have been overlooked in favour of Ron's.

"What are you doing here?"Ron was asking Ginny as she arched over a goblet to pour herself a glass of Parkinson's liquor. She looked as if having been frightened out of her skin.

"I couldn't contact you so I reached out to her. We apparated here."Bill answered for his sister, then wheeled to look at Neville and Hermione. "I suppose Ron's told you about me going underground." They nodded in unison. "The situation there hasn't really changed since Voldemort's rise to power. You can't uproot a mindset they've been drilling into you over night. So, despite Kingsley's introduction of the registry and change of treatment, they don't trust us: And those that do are very rare. Harry Potter's name carries little significance - the Boy Who Lived or the Boy Who Died; it's the same for them, they've got nothing to lose or gain."

"What are you talking about?"Ron chimed in impatiently. "Did you find anything? The werewolf that attacked Harry?"

"Yes,"said Bill. "and no."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I have a lead."Bill added firmly. "The one I'd rather not have."

Ron gave a sonorous snort. Hermione's forehead had contorted further into understanding the course of conversation.

"We're wizards! What could possibly be so shocking in our world?"

Bill's temper was inflating; Ginny was eyeing them with slanted eyes for the slightest hint at the sudden quarrel.

"What you meant,"Neville proceeded with a peculiar look to him - eyebrows contracted and a furtive gleam twisting his eyes. Bill waited for continuation, obviously uncertain of the tone of his own voice. "when you said 'yes and no'...were you talking about the - the Inferi?"

Pansy howled a shrill, theatrical laugh. (Hermione was mum, shoving nails into her forearm to chase away the creeping dread. The undead, the essence of Necromancy.

"We're fine so long as they burn."Ron joked during the lunch break.

They've known, they'd expected it. Then why did she suddenly feel like a helpless fly in a web of something larger than life?)

"What do you mean Inferi, Longbottom?"she snarled, goblet viciously swinging. "Did you splinch your brain? Can you even do that with a Portkey?!"

Bill replied with a twitch of his head that caused her goblet to land at her feet with a reverberating clatter, the remaining firewhisky gushing like blood from an open wound. (Ron stirred away from sight, and Hermione knew he was thinking of Harry and Little Hangleton.) It glided smoothly through the gaps between the white tiles, forming a strangely tilted square out of whose far tip the liquor forked into separate flows. Hermione found it awfully familiar.

"Y-You saw one?"Neville entreated. "You must've."

"Two."Bill confessed. "Slaughtered a man before my eyes."

He bobbed his head. "I saw one. 'T was dark and, I wasn't sure for a moment, but-" He went to fumbling with the pockets of his robes for a moment before presenting them a golden chain at the sight of which Hermione let out a small whimper of horror. Ron's head had snapped with a reflex of a Keeper; he reached for it instinctively, the question of taste forgotten, clutching at the chains with parted, quivering lips. "She had it on...on the 10th. The ringing - it alerted me and saved Hannah. Figured you might want to have it. I'm sorry, I had to kill her."

Ron was rendered speechless, surveying the necklace, unresponsive to Ginny's hand that had crept to press at his shoulder.

"She was already dead, Neville."Bill reminded him. "Those things aren't the people we knew."

He laughed bitterly. "Maybe they don't look like them or act like them, but they  _feel_  like them,"he poked the spot over his heart, just above the breast pocket of his travelling cloak. "as you watch them burn. And you remember carrying them to the Great hall."

There was silence - thick and painful, laden with memories.

Hermione thought of Lavender Brown - the gleeful brown haired girl fascinated by Divination, who had loved gossip and Ron so fiercely. She thought of a werewolf whose name tingled at the tip of her tongue - and a son he'd never see. The bright smile of a pink-haired witch in a room packed with people. Alastor Moody's rough demeanor -  _Stay vigilant_. Her wrist snapped towards her lips to silence the wail that tore from her once she thought of Fred Weasley, smiling underneath the debris at the joke he never knew to be the last he'd ever hear. Her visage watered into blurs, dissipating further, until she could not tell where Ginny began and Ron ended.

"I contacted Harry the same night."Neville recounted once her breathing had regained its customary flow. "Told him what happened. We went to McGonagall together, then parted ways so he could see Kingsely and I could  _Obliviate_  the witnesses. Including Hannah."

"McGonagall suggested we depart to France for the time being. I protested, but Harry convinced me - said I needed to protect my kid. He promised to keep me updated however he could. After almost two weeks, I was anxious, I wanted to contact you but Kingsely had advised me against it - interception, panic, fresh from war...Then Ron found me using the DA coin. You know the rest."

 _Galleons_ , Hermione mused discontentedly, mopping her eyes at the sleeve of her robe.  _Of course_.

"Bloody brilliant!" Pansy half-shouted. " And what do you know about those wicked things? They can be killed by fire and are deadly at close range, but do we know the pattern? Like when does the bloke raise them?  _How_  does he chose them? Why?"

"We can assume they're targeting those we lost in the Battle."Bill declared.

"What do you mean  _assume_?"Ron exacted in an uncharacteristically squeaky voice that he banished with a cough. "What did you see? Or rather -  _who_?"Bill glanced at the necklace still sitting entangled with all Ron's fingers. He was hesitant, but Hermione knew, by the penitent look he was giving the object, that the name he was to say had once been dear.

"Remus and Tonks."he said with a finality to his tone. His expression resembled that of a man being flayed alive. Hermione smothered a yelp with a sleeve, but her heart was drumming ferociously as she crumbled further into the coldness of the leather chair. Ron's eyes were darting back and fort between Bill and Ginny (who was the only indifferent one beside Bill), hoping for the latter to deny it, but when it didn't happen, he  _Accioed_ a half-full goblet from the silver tray.

"It was dark,"Bill explained. "and I was - thankfully - meters away, but I'm sure it was Remus. I've known him for years and I- I'm positive. Regarding Tonks, I can't say."

"They were buried together. They must've revived them together."Ginny croaked.

"It's possible but not necessary."

"We need to contact Draco."Pansy proclaimed, already heading for the door. "I'll owl him-"

"A patronus would be safer."Bill suggested seeking Hermione's cooperation. "A patronus of someone they both know, so they wouldn't think it's a trap to lure one out."

"What then?"Ron hurled at them. "What plan do we have? What can we possibly do when we don't even know who we're up against?!"

"A Death Eater." Ginny said roughly. "What wizard would ever resort to rising  _our_  dead from the ground? With what rational explanation?"

"But they're all imprisoned!"Ron bellowed.

"They have a history of breakouts."

"Then what bloody progress have we achieved if Death Eaters can still roam the streets like Voldemort is still alive?!"

They stood in heavy silence, each with their own shock etched in their muscles, rooted at their spots. Ron looked on, contemptuous.

(He was right. But there was a trace of childish spite in the way Hermione refused to acknowledge the imparted; as if faith would've been shattered by a single sin. She had exercised reforms, participated in countless litigations and lawsuits that imposed justice where it had been a myth or a children's story serving to teach of morality. Harry had implanted his knowledge into every cell of the department, fiercely orating the paramountcy of imprisonment of all dark wizards unwilling to cooperate with the institutions. He chided corruption and power, and Ron had stood by him at every event she had so sedulously organised. The new measures were undertaken, laws enforced, the Muggle-pureblood conflict reduced to minimum - the world seemed to march into an age of prosperity. Or had it been just a farce while the greater evil accumulated? Was Harry - and herself - blinded by a vision they couldn't achieve?

Was it really Harry's dream, or her own?)

"As long as there's someone to stop 'em,"Neville was grinning under the light of the brass chandelier. Hermione noted how much more golden his hair was and eyes greener. "I don't think we need to worry about them."

"Besides,"he was scratching the back of his head, a bit exuberant. "if we really wanna know, I can think of only one place...buckle up guys!"

"We're going to Azkaban."

_~x~_

It was almost midnight when he found him; back to the floor, knees bent in midst of ransacked mess, illuminated by the sole ball of light at the tip of the wand.

His arms were spread limp on either side of him, buried in the pages and statuesque memories. His left fist was grinding ashes of what Draco recognised as burnt paper piece. Brown mokeskin pouch was hanging loosely around his neck, covering the spine of a discarded leather bound notebook - it appeared fatter, stuffed with newfound bits and pieces Potter had deemed to be treasures. (Draco thought of his mother and her dragon hide purse he'd nearly burned while practicing newly learned spells. The look of petrifying disappointment as she had slapped him that day. He wondered how great the pain some men must've endured to seek refuge in the past.) Although he was poring the crimson ceiling where the majestic Gryffindor lion roared the house values in equal gold, (Draco bitterly regretted the lessons he had given him.) Harry had heard Malfoy enter, or rather smelled the savour of the mint tea.

(The moon must've been up, Harry gambled, mentally running through the chart of Draco's habitual tea-parties by hours before deciding the endeavour surely belonged under the  _'calming goodnight tea_ ' category.

Harry didn't know living with Draco Malfoy meant being in possession of a private compass. Nothing the boy did was accidental or spontaneous - and it took Harry a day to memorise his ritual of tea drinking by the fireplace. However, Malfoy was as soothing a person as the scent he exuded - he didn't feel anxious or guilty for not remembering events or people during their chats. He enjoyed the afternoon wand lessons and the priceless look on the well-groomed face every time he'd purposefully fail a spell. Draco was rather bright and sharp-witted, inclined to help decipher every clue Harry had deracinated from his godfather's room. He was intrigued by the manner his brows had contracted every time he'd asses Hermione's notes and plans for the day before regarding them as rubbish and proceeding to ask him what he'd read. The way his eyes darted at the mention of a new name.)

"You were right."he whispered, startling the other boy who nearly toppled over the lying broomstick. Specks of dust swirled as hitched breath was driven from him. "There were letters underneath the bed, buried in the floor."

Draco nodded tentatively; silent, abashed at getting caught. He withdrew a step across the creaking floors, scowling the longer the yowling stretched. "Clever, Potter. Enchanted to ward off the prying pest, I see."

"Nothing can ward you off, Malfoy."

"A kind of bravery you wouldn't understand."

Harry smiled, aiming the phoenix feather wand at the ceiling where golden lion shone like Sun.

"It was hidden under the planks."he explained. "He wrote about it to my dad. And Remus. Plastered the room in house colours to 'piss her off'. Said this," He indicated the enchantment with the wand. "was 'you know Prongs, that Muggle saying - a cherry on top." He broke into a grin like a kid after an innocent mischief; his scar almost swallowed by the slopes risings on his forehead.

The beast roared.

Glistening letters gradually poured from its jaws, eventually forming elegant words in the center of the scarlet vault.  _Daring_  across Potter's forehead,  _nerve_  just opposite the sharp apple of his throat,  _chivalry_  parallel with heart. Draco was struck mindless at the sight.

"Hermione was wrong."Harry admitted ruefully. "I'll never be able to remember."

Malfoy's head spun to glower at him. "I never took you for a quitter Potter." he retorted crossly. "A bulger to that thick skull of yours and you still kept frolicking around for years. What was it this time, a troll's club?"

"I wasn't hit by anything."Harry corrected. "Ron found me against stone. Smethwyck thought it was an accident while running from the werewolf."

"You died five years ago, Potter," Draco persisted irritably. "Merlin's bloody arse - you almost died on the Triwizard tournament! Death doesn't like you, do it a favour and live."

"I never said I wanted to die." Harry was facing him now. His eyes were several shades lighter than the Slytherin emerald, but in dim light or dusk one could almost mistake one for the other. "I just said that I don't think I'll ever remember my life as it was."

He snorted, for the lack of cleverer gesture. "Which is the same as dying, in my book."he added harshly. Harry looked genuinely surprised.

"Funny,"he chuckled - an inky strand flitted to poke at the tattered glasses. "your file says you hated me. With passion."Malfoy's eyes bulged before he'd realised it. It was a subject they'd never even grazed. "Hermione's words." Potter was quick to add. "I'm an innocent reader." (Harry wasn't certain whether it was indeed dusted blush on Malfoy's cheeks or just a play of trickster light, nevertheless, it amused him.)

"Well, we were young and stupid."he blurted, lumbering to the shadows rather timidly. "You were an insufferable git - I was proud and somewhat... _sensitive_  to your constant displays of heroics, so, it was only natural that we collided."

Harry laughed - Draco still couldn't get used to the shrillness of the sound that so effortlessly dazzled the room, even though it had been a week. A week of running errands and apparating and disapparating to and fro the Manor with ugly boxes crammed with dearest of his possessions. The first time he'd heard it was Wednesday afternoon, just past tea time when he had also settled for the room opposite of Harry's (His godfather's - the nameplate implied.) Potter was howling in the kitchen when lanky Weasley dropped the carefully garnered books on Dark arts on his way up the mean stairs. He was flabbergasted when Weasley joined in. (His mother didn't laugh. Even her smiles became rarer after his father had died. He supposed he had forgotten the pleasantness of such a carefree sound.)

"Do you still have those badges?"Harry asked, stirring him to present. "The Potter stinks ones."

"Sold them to Voldemort."he replied, sliding to the floor. "He was quite a fan of my work." This time it was louder, richer, yet not as unpleasantly croaky as Weasel's or as uniform as Granger's - its mirth was tugging at Draco's lips too.

"Did they wear them to Battle?" He had to prop himself up to speak. "Green and all, I think it'd suit them."

Draco smirked. "Almost. My aunt had to talk him out of it - something about image. He was very displeased but went with it. Might've worn it underneath the cloak."

He was chortling, gently rubbing his eyes. They were brighter though the lighting didn't change. Harry adjusted the glasses and ran lithe fingers through the nest of hair. His muscles flexed like mountain cat's, his chest billowing like beast's as he inhaled. A small portion of the red shirt was lifted revealing a chunk of quidditch-carved skin Draco was instantly jealous of. Potter had straightened his legs and Malfoy tried recalling whether he indeed was the taller of the two. The room was unnaturally balmy for the time of night. (Perhaps - miraculously - his own was too.)

"I know that I loved him."Potter broke the spell by moving to bolster his chin against the knees. They were awfully close in this new arrangement, and Draco was equally paranoid that he could feel Potter's toothpaste-reeking breath ghost over his face. Anxious bumps surged up his arm willing him to fight the shivers.

"I remember it. Something clawing at my chest the moment I realised he won't be coming back." He didn't continue immediately. He was engrossed in meddling with his wand for a very long moment, thinking. Draco concluded he wasn't shrewd enough to discern the quality of thoughts prowling his mind.

"It's a thing about death, really,"he said earnestly. "you don't feel it instantly. Well, the consequences. It sort of just hits you. Later. When you're no longer angry or empty - you're just...there. Existing. Coping and grieving and...aware. Like you've suddenly unlocked a layer of consciousness you didn't know you possessed. And it's so overwhelming you can't do anything but pule. The rooms don't look the same. You'll never hear those footsteps that were ingrained in your being. You'll never smell their scent on air. You'll be grasping but it'll be evading - like a Snitch in a game of Quidditch."

(A boy of nineteen sitting in the drawing room, perched on the arm of a rustic mahogany chair, facing a willowy woman clothed in mourning attire, bent before the green lit fireplace. An obituary lying on the small, circular coffee table where, just days ago, the grayish-green mug of Lucius Malfoy had rested.

"Yes, thank you,"she uttered. "We are fine. Draco is...adjusting." _Coping,_  he liked Potter's version better. Though, he admitted, it had been too early for grief.

"No,"she chided the woman bashfully. "The wound is yet fresh and I am too old for such ventures, I am afraid."

"Oh, the authority now belongs to Draco, dear." He was almost sickened.)

"I've felt all that. In the hospital."he proclaimed. "Hermione said it meant I've never forgotten, just repressed it."

"That would mean your brain's got a trigger."Draco replied, looking dazed. "Have you noticed the trigger?"

Harry shrugged casually. "It started when Ginny said your name. The first set, just disconnected flashes, now it's all more of a blur."

Draco sniggered. "Observant as a brick wall, are we? Remind me again, Potter, why can't things be simple with you?"

"You said simple was boring."he countered. His hair was lawless and storm colored, the light obstructed by a heel of a foot.

"Maybe. But safe too."

"So I'm dangerous?" He gave him an innocent smile.

"If your current skill level matched the one you waved around five years ago, I might've  _considered_  you a worthy opponent."

Harry laughed. "I killed the Dark Lord, and Ginny's told me I looked quite dangerous. I think the word she used was also  _impressive_."

"Well, I'm not easily impressed."

"Oh, really?"he said breathily. "Then what impresses you?"

Wordlessly, Draco pulled out a wand from the pocket of his jeans and pointed it at the ceiling; with an elegant flourish and a wisp of silvery smoke, the roaring Gryffindor lion was surrounded by falling snowflakes and twinkling stars.

"Snow?"Potter asked with a hint of wonder, tilting his head to look at the temporary night sky. He winced when a soft flake landed on his collar. "Or cold?"

"Neither."Draco retorted. "It's more of a...metaphor."

"A metaphor?"

"Innocence."he said softly. "In a sense of not being defiled by anything - war, loss. The Dark Lord."

Harry leaned closer and Draco saw that his spectacles were coated in a thick layer of fog. A thin grin grazed his lips. "You might want to clean them up, Potter."he pointed. Harry seemed not to have heard him.

"That's a hell of a thing to ask for."he said. "I gathered that it was something the whole Wizarding world was engaged in, something that'll smoulder for ages. Generations."

Draco sighed, unwilling to participate in the reasoning. The act was impulsive, careless even.

"Perhaps  _impressed_  was a too strong word."he said after a lengthy silence. Harry had assembled an impressive pile of discarded paper and was heartily attempting to use it as an extremity warmer. "Envy would be a better fit."

"Then, do you envy me?"he offered. "I've no memory of what happened, therefore I'm...unsullied?"

"That's not what I meant."he said despondently. Harry was frustrated with his failed invention. "I wouldn't envy you on not being you."

"Who do you envy then?" He stopped his fiddling.

Draco regretted ever prompting the conversation. "It doesn't matter." He made a swishy motion that caused the snow to perish.

"You should get to sleep."he advised Potter while rising to his feet. "Tomorrow's the day our  _social worker_ , Granger, comes to visit. Weasel under arm, I'm afraid."

Harry looked oddly on. (Something was wrenching at his heart at the realisation that he might've forced Draco to cross the line he had established.)

"I'm-"

He was cut across by an ashy mist that swam into the bedroom through the small rectangular window, soared towards the lion and fluttered to a standstill above the leather-bound notebook where it materialised into an otter.

_Tomorrow, 6 o' clock. Be ready. We have news._

The animal dissolved into nothingness as soon as Hermione's voice died.

"What was that?"Harry muttered, tracing the spot where it had stood just seconds ago, as if his touch or presence obliged it to reappear.

"A patronus."Draco replied patiently. "An advanced form of magic."

"What did it want?"

"We'll find out tomorrow."Malfoy sighed, heading for the door. "Though I wouldn't look forward to it - Granger tends to bring life-changing news."

"Good night, Potter."

"Night,"

With a courteous nod, he disappeared behind the thudding door, leaving Harry to sit in the middle of disarray: Breath of the last words tethered to the cold night air.


	4. Azkaban

The northern star was hanging like a beacon in the darkness at the end of the world.

A tall figure stood upon a narrow chunk of land, beholding the whomping waves as the wind whipped against the embossed tower of graying rock, carrying the reek of salt and withering men. The tail of his robes soughed with the gust, swaying him on his feet near the spear of the jutting edge overlooking the wide leaden sea. A pair of wyvern skulls, carved in the cliff before the oval entrance, was roaring in silence; their dead eyes watching the coiling structure fade among the high scuttling clouds. (Sharp, proud jaw was clenched shut in a wheel of prayers; a drowning man's lifeline. He was seventeen anew - his father crumbled to the white marble floors, crying like an infant torn from mother's breast. Thin, white hair on white stone. Shame fogging his visage. Searing knives in Draco's belly. They spent years building around the wraiths of unwanted history. Pretending, rushing away from the dust, the crippling truth of imperfection masked by poise. Knitting lies to keep the sunken boat afloat.  And standing before the mangled doorway opposed everything he had once devoted himself to. It was a kind of acknowledgment he was unsure of accepting.)

The air was rank with the scent of despair. Thick and heavy, it turned his lungs to acid. 

Across the raging waste, a humanoid form glided, alone and faceless. Even at half a mile distance he could see the rotten green flesh, the pale bone where muscle should've been. A wave of discomfort pumped through his system - he bore no interest in experiencing the extent of frost the wraith's proximity allegedly exuded: His breath huffed warm and silver, whirling in the air. The rocks blossomed with frozen tusks, arching above the stony mouth.

A drop slid down the sharp, crooked nose. It appeared to have started to rain.

Gwain Robards hugged the cloth of his brown travelling cloak tighter around himself, watching as the storm brewed, trapped within a howling kettle. Too small cloak wrapped itself around him like Devil's snare. (For a second, he considered his mistrust of Granger's observation abilities.) The crust of charms was shimmering, numbering their time. ("Two hours."Pansy said, fiddling with the beads of emerald inwrought in his cloak. She might've been a crow, picking at the ripe meat of a dead man. "I'll stall, but we can't guarantee what'll happen once they find out." _When_ , she meant. _They'll tie my hands_.)

The rain wept. He could hear the thunder approaching from the south, trotting like a herd of warhorses.

The gulls were quarrelling over prey in the high seas: Their enormous white wings flapped up as they would plummet into the gray water, emerging with burnished, flat fishes wriggling in their beaks. The flock cawed, hailing their saviours. Draco wondered about a set of broomsticks stashed away in Granger's ugly purse: And winds and water and vicious storms. He was sodden by the time wispy lynx soared, curling on the rock; then smashed against the cliff, smattering him with droplets.

With a Drying spell upon his tongue, Draco Malfoy crossed the runic threshold of the prison's mouth.

The chamber was dark, weakly lit by floating drops of light, tapering the further it spread. Breath of ancient magic was etched in the walls, flowing like blood through tar veins. _Almost as if it was alive_ , Malfoy thought. _Breathing. Self-preserving_.

(The words remained the same (a chill in his heart) as the first time he'd heard them.

The day was duller; gray like a pit of a cauldron, and seasoned with death. An explosion, north of the border, near the spine of heavy brown cliffs overlooking the world's end. The site was blasted with magic Draco had never seen. The edges were smooth and flesh ripe, studding the ground. The odor was acrid, tinted with a pint of burnt flesh - and his breakfast kept undulating. He watched the gulls flock to dead men, and wondered how far the scent travelled to lure the preying. _Faster than words_ , he gambled. _Faster than Voldemort's fury._ They were retrieved from guard duty, him and Longbottom, wearing the skin of men crafted from vials of Polyjuice potion; and summoned to play dogs at Robard's bidding. Pansy had stolen him and Ron when the wuthering noon perished, to a cottage sprouting in the midst of the Forest of Dean. It was a stout build, fat and low, shielded from sight by a fence of perennial trees; ruby red and amber gold.   _A safe house_ , he thought. _Perhaps Potter's, once._ There was a stream, a ribbon of shimmering blue, swift and sudden, coiling across the leaf-strewn field.

The white walls of cottage's gut shone like diamonds under the brazier's light.  Short of furnishings, barring the oaken table, it appeared larger than its first impression.

Weasel was stricken when Pansy had bestowed them with a heap of wilted paper.

"The documentation." She crossed the conjured table, adjusting the choke of her collar with careful fingers. "From Kingsley's office. Doubling Charm, again."

Weasel appraised her with guarded suspicion that dissolved into a pout. "And we're here...?"

She glared, then conjured a third chair. "Those files were supposed to be destroyed years ago. After the mass breakout. Kingsley was able to preserve them, but apparently, they are such a secret that he would not let me inspect further than what was needed."she mused, mirroring the distress of Weasley's features. Yet, Draco couldn't wrestle off the thought she resembled a house-elf who had just been denied a moldy sock.

Her brows met above the vertical shrivel at the nose's crown. Malfoy gave her a curious, furtive look. "Did you know Azkaban's alive?" She shook her head despondently. "The fucking prison was not enchanted. Fucking hell, Draco, it's...it partly conforms with stupid definitions of beings." She'd beckoned her head towards the shadows. Her face appeared blotched beneath the fragile light.

"What do you mean?" His voice was firm, but gentle. Weasley rose, wordless.

"It's sentinent. A legilimens. It uses those shrinky powers to read intentions, then activates a sort of magic to protect itself from breach. Basically, you'd be parasites invading an organism that is trying to protect itself by the use of its white cells."

"What about the cloak?"Weasley said. "Maybe we could deceive it by turning invisible."

Parkinson's gaze was pensive, quicker than curse in finding Ron's. "There are types of magic able to reveal what's meant to be hidden. _Homenum Revelio_ , for instance. Mud- _Granger_ \- said Moody could see through the cloak with his eye. Both are quite different mag - oh the _hell_ , _you're_ an Auror!"

"What does it do, Pansy?" Draco whispered, promptly redirecting her shirty attention. "Just tell me what it does."

Pansy was exasperated, ire quelled by fright she wasn't acquainted with. "Variables. The whole damn essay speculates about it. Like your fucking Dark Mark," She snatched at his wrist. "You wanna find a Death Eater? Shame, it's gonna give you every other one, but _him_. Concealing names, spinning walls. This- Draco, your Mark, it can't-" She swallowed to mask the brittleness of her tone. The sight might've punched the air out of his lungs.

"There's Occlumency." He shrugged. "Also, me and Granger can memorize the cell pattern while Weasel and Potter have a picnic." The words slipped, quicker than reason.

She laughed. "You prick." And popped the initial p. "You never - it's a friggin _magical_ _tower_ , Draco. You can't-"

"I can."he interjected tersely. "And you know I've always wanted Weird Sisters to praise me in their stupid songs. The Ballad of an Imperiused Death Eater and a Blood Traitor, fitting, ain't it Weasel?"

"Think you meant a bouncing ferret."he corrected, crossly.

Pansy disapparated after hexing them both.)

He marched past the grinning form of Kingsley Shacklebolt, engaged in ebullient chatter with a pair of guards whose watch had ended; a wide, stout man of his father's age, with small almond-shaped eyes, beside him an elongated woman with a gaunt, avarage face underneath the cascade of curly chestnut hair. (Strangely, he was reminded of the aunt he'd never met.) His gaze glided towards Weasley and Granger, a small, sharp-looking intern in the height of his youth that stood at the foot of the spiraling set of weathered stairs. Weasley was looking at him, intently. With a courteous incline of Draco's head, they were headed up the winding path underneath the deluminator's light. The climb was steep and unusually slippery, and the walls seemed to follow the same strait norm of the halls that roused reluctance in Draco's thickset shoulders; however, the crawl was surprisingly more comfortable than he'd imagined - although the fine cloth of his cloak was devoured by a pack of translucent teeth that did not shy away from piercing the delicate meat. They emerged in the stone hallway of wyvern statues hidden in dilapidated alcoves. Draco thought of gargoyles in the Hogwart's hallway; grand, magnificent creations charmed to flit at slightest motion.

"Guarding entries." Weasley reminded, pressing to the opposite wall as he passed the first beast's head. They were taller than him, taller than them both: And their jaws looked as sharp as knight's spears. Malfoy approached the first, gingerly examining the slanted runic carvings across the creature's chest.

Pinkstone, Carlotta __it said. Below: _Violation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_

Before he could announce the inmate, a torrent of sickening shrieks rose like flood, spreading the beads of cold sweat in ripples across the ashen forehead. His heart sank to his stomach, his blood draining white. There was a thud on the other side of the stone - then another and one more.

The intern shivered, perfunctory snatching Weasley's hand, lacing their fingers into fists. "This is - these people!" he squeaked, an unpleasant sound of disturbing height and questionable masculinity. Weasel gestured at the wall ahead where a faint glimmer grew from the chink in the stone. A shadow was bolting in and out of sight - swift, swifter than Firebolt or Nimbus, than sight or light. Draco's nerves seared expectantly above the concealed wand, fingers spasming - when a gaunt, sallow cheek pushed through the slit.

" _Filthy creatures!_ " A woman screeched. "Release me. The Boy should have perished! _Liar!_ The Boy should have-"

" _Silencio!_ "he hollered. The air was purged from sound.

"A level too low."Potter deemed after seconds of silence, stripped of the cloak.  Blade of his shoulder brushed against Draco's - and the spot prickled like a sting of a bee. (He smelled of figs and wet earth, and Draco felt vulnerable before the invading scent.) He looked to see him stashing the shimmering cloth into the intern's beaded purse that rattled with a sound quite disproportional to its size. Long, lean fingers held onto the phoenix feather wand. "It shifted for half a spin." His eyes skidded to the chest of the wild woman's cell. "Looks familiar."

Draco read the inscription.

"Dolores Umbridge,"he retorted, remembering a large, squat woman adorned in green tweed and pink chiffon whose saccharine tone had once bellowed orders through the great oaken door. Absently, he glanced over at ivory lines coating the back of Potter's right hand. "A sympathizer. But not a Death Eater." There was blood seeping down the fissures, gushing down Umbridge's mutilated cheek, filling the air with the earthy scent of raw iron in a smithy. _Scourgify_ , he ordered and watched it vanish in a steam. (His mother's eyes, big and bright staring at Granger's blood. Rising mist and hurried gait. Narcissa reappearing, carrying a jug of water with frenzied eyes. She had poured it over both their hands, scrubbing them together, knuckle by knuckle. Her tears had washed his hands more than water. _One day_ , she had told him. _One day the choice will not be wrong_.)

"Maybe she'd know something? Maybe we should ask."

He surpressed a snort. "She's loony more than Lovegood, Potter. If you want to chat about chopped off heads and wrackspurts, suit yourself."

Harry frowned. "We've just assumed your uncle's our best chance."

"No,"Malfoy spluttered, indignant. He strode away from the wall of Umbridge's lair, heading toward the wyvern on whose chest stood a lengthy inscription of rune written names. "We _agreed_."he added with a huff, his brow furrowed.  "It might seem like I'm vouching for my uncle in the name of familial affection, but trust me, he's undeserving of even scorn. I have absolutely nothing to gain. Not even my fantasies of a harmonious family that treats its members with respect, as I'm obviously mingling with you, Potter, who murdered my uncle's beloved lord in cold blood. Sprinkle in a bit of Granger and Weasel, shall we? Frankly, I'm not sure he's gonna be thrilled to see my handsome mug."

Potter's fine jaw had tautened further that Malfoy pondered whether the source of the relentless clatter were his teeth.

"If this was a waste of time-"

"Nag to Granger or Longbottom."he cut across curtly. "I'm here for your insolent ass."

He was bent in front of the largest statue in the hall, appraising the lack of carvings with curious eyes. Granger persisted in screwing her neck to peek at what his fingers were tracing.

"I know."Potter came again, muscular arms knotted at the level of his chest. His hair was misbehaving weirdly, with sharp tresses sticking at oddest of angles. Draco wondered whether Azkaban was the only entity of its own. "And I don't see how this will lead us anywhere."

Weasley snickered. "As long as it's better than what we have, it's not nothing. Besides, phase one's already completed, right? Now we just gonna politely excuse ourselves for disturbing these nice murderous folks and beg a Death Eater to fly with us into the sunset on Thestral's back. You gotta admit it's more exciting than Voldemort hunt, Harry, at least the Thestral part."

"I don't remember it, Ron."

"Oh, right."

Granger shouted from the shade of the second stairway. "It activated. There aren't any runes here. Down the whole end."

Malfoy nodded in approval. "These are empty." He beckoned to the chest near the current, where names where mauled. "Dead by the kiss, probably."he deduced, leaning to examine the inscription nearest to Potter; an equally lengthy list of barely comprehensible names. His nose had scrunched as if having sniffed a portion of dung. "Recently, by the smell."

Weasley was purple even in the shadow of the stairs. "We're in _Azkaban_ for Merlin's sake! _Why_ are there _spiders_ here?"

Potter was looking morose, almost tentative at Malfoy's declaration. "Mulciber," he chimed in. He was looming above mutilated chest; a coal strand nestled into the crook of his neck. "He was alive, according to Thursday's reports. He couldn't have died in less than twenty-four hours."

"It's strange, yes,"Granger agreed almost promptly. "But not impossible. There are cases of critically ill patients seemingly getting better, then dying unexpectedly. It's Azkaban, Harry. Them being alive isn't an example of tower's care. It keeps them alive through torture and feeds them rats. It's never been just Dementors, but the Ministry's been silent about it for centuries. Even the information known to the Aurors is limited. It was never properly inspected."

"I'm saying Lestrange could be dead too." He was calm, prim and proper, as if muzzled to prevent from bark. "And for all we know it can blow up any moment. "

"Magic has rules, Harry."she mimicked his tone.  Draco couldn't see her manly face, but gathered her displeasure at being prodded in the manner she had inflated like a sea urchin. "You'd know that had you read those books I brought you when you first woke up in Saint Mungo's."

"But that's theory, what-"

"You need to understand the theory to be able to execute a spell perfectly."she interjected, already scurrying to the other end. Harry laughed, and Draco wondered whether it were the beads of light that emitted warmth accumulating in the room, or it was just an ephemeral hunch.

They sped down the corridor in quiet and up the winding stairs, halting atop the steps to peer into the musty room. Draco saw torches painting black shadows across the crimson-gold walls. A sole window stood, looking at the pale moon. The sea was ruthless and the night bleak.

"No wyverns."he announced, peering at the naked stone. "We'll have to blast through."

Granger squeezed past him, crouched next to the stairs, and drew her wand heedfully against the statue's contours. Potter was shuffling from one flame to the other, looking detached.

"It doesn't open like Diagon alley,"she said softly. "And I doubt it responds to passwords either."

"It can't respond to something we don't know, Hermione."Weasley whined dejectedly from the entry. He had conjured a fat green toad to feast on the spiders. It was croaking on the floor like a broken wireless. "And this was supposed to be easy."

"We can try moving the torches."Potter suggested. "Or aligning the lights. It has to be something." Granger appeared quite content with his interest.

"Guarding torches are often enchanted to prompt you into identifying yourself by some kind of action. These are just like Muggle ones. Non-magical, serving to repel the dark." She stashed the wand back inside the beaded purse and stood up. Her expression was grim and worried; and unclear. "It appears to not have shifted further. Which means we should still be able to find him in the left wing. Unfortunately, we'll have to improvise with this, and try not to alert the Ministry."

Malfoy snorted. "Improvise in a friendly prison filled with criminals who've been languishing here for killing people, not picking _mushrooms_ in the Forbidden Forest." The light-dotted hallway awoke, flickering rather furiously.

The sullen eyes seemed genuine. "I don't think there's anything we know of, that would help us at this point."

Draco wished he'd at least pretended to be insulted by her observation, but there was an equal amount of consolation as there was of sourness in the cognition of the moment's feebleness. Repulsed, he felt bizarrely placid.

"There's a way."he defended, his words said to the wind. All the voices died at once.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"she spoke when the Moon had passed them; a curl of wild brown hair popping on the back of her short neck. Her corner was yet light-strewn - and Draco drank from the round face - dark eyes and plump cheeks, fat, parched lips. _Goyle_ , he remembered. A sense of brittleness engulfed him, drew away the breath so that words came wobbly.

"I-it's all we have." Her lips ajared. He could see the series of compelling protests alight the small, watery eyes, thus he lept to keep her silent. "If you can think of something better, spill it."he said irritably.

"I don't." She sighed despondently, questioning the efficiency of her decision. "Will it work? How dangerous it really is?" Granger spun the questions in undertones as if the act would enlighten her with an answer.

"The mark on your hand?" Potter piped in, poring the spot where the skull should've been had the body been Draco's. The look was more of pity than frozen fright. Ron breathed a sonorous sack of air.

" _Scar_."Malfoy corrected with a hiss. Tingles swept across his forearm - rock hard and winter bold, it latched at his breath. The panic was soft in him, lulling like a lullaby. "It won't bite, Potter, if that's what you think. The mark summoning; recarving it, call it what you will - it'd provide us with a fair chance, if done right. By right, I mean with your wand, Potter."

Potter blinked. "My wand?"

"It shares the same core as Voldemort's."Granger explained. "A feather taken from the same phoenix. Draco believes using your wand would awaken the remnant traces of the spell. And I agree. It's...clever. But not easy or painless." She looked at him, pointedly. "It's Dark magic. All scars made by such force are alike in the fact that they _hurt_. Sometimes even to the extent people cannot imagine." Potter's eyes were impossibly green even in the shadow. Green flecked with rings of what appeared to be gold, scanning Draco steadily.

"Yes, blimey - but what happens if the killer ritual isn't done right?" Weasley said. "Just tell me it doesn't involve dying."

"I don't know what it involves, but I highly doubt _you_ would die from me activating a scar on _my_ hand."

"Point taken."

He didn't notice Granger's wand was out, fluttering hesitantly at the level of his nose.

"What should we do once you activate it?" She was studying Malfoy rather disconcerted. "We do need a plan."

" _I know_." he sounded dismayed, agitated by the attention he was receiving. "You'll have to seek silence. I suspect the lot that is unacquainted with the situation will cause quite a ruckus. If we debar the screams. But Lestrange won't. He's never been the sort - especially if he knows."

"How long do we have?" Weasley asked, beaming at the work his toad had accomplished as if he'd just received an 'Outstanding' in potions.

"As long as I hold it, I suppose. I'll try to make it three minutes."

Potter stayed perfectly still like a lingering ghost. (Figs and pumpkins and wet earth. He wanted to spit on his face.) "You're bloody insane."he breathed.

Draco was amused enough to offer an eager reply. "A virtue, Potter.  Thought you'd know that of all people."

A tiny dimple sank into Potter's cheek. (Malfoy was quick to notice it was fairly similar to the one he donned after thoughtfully confessing to striking resemblance of Draco's transfigured form to a ferret.) "I'm just an insufferable git."

"Touching of you to admit."

Granger vanished the mountain of a nose Draco had carried. He resorted to watching her wand move in complicated sequences of smooth, sinuous and triangular motions that made Weasley dizzy. In a minute, Draco stood in his own body, Robards clothes lifelessly hanging from his limbs. ( _A Dementor_ , he mused. _If not looked at properly_.) Only his cloak fitted, and the fact alone made him happy.

"Ron and I will head deeper in, by the last light." Granger said, her form blanketed by dark. Weasel had long disappeared, along with his pet. "If we find him, one of us will come to inform you. Just - be careful."

Her departure left the air in awkwardness: Broken when Draco moved to unbutton his sleeve. Potter was fidgeting like a hunted quail, shifting his weight, pouting like Granger. He watched Malfoy fold layer after layer - green eyes grazing gray - until his palm was touching the white surface of a wilted S. ("Slytherin,"Pansy had told him at dinner in Hog's Head. They were nineteen - and her lips were still bruised from some boy's vindictive hex. Malfoy's gaze had lifted from the plate, puzzled. "Your scar. The world doesn't need to know what it really was.")

"I'll be needing your wand."

"Right,"Harry said.

The eleven-inches long holly wand was light in Draco's hand. He wasn't certain why, but he had always imagined it would carry a sort of weight; a mark to denote it was destined for greatness. But the brittleness appeared to remind him of humanity; a trait of Potter's the world had deliberately renounced.

Potter saw to it that Draco's grip was adjusted accordingly; his index strained along the wand's length, thumb underneath for support. The fit was natural, although he were no wand's master. Draco brought the harsh tip to his forearm, the irritation caused him to bristle.

Potter released him with a curt bob. "I'll go stand over there."

It was halfway through Potter's retreat that Malfoy slashed into his skin: The pain was faint, like a peck of a bird. The young flesh spluttering blood that doused the scar. Stray trickles caught his velvet cloak, fouling it dark. (He could nearly feel the stench of death exhaled from the blanched face. A cackle of hyenas gathered to behold his fall from grace. He had screamed like a wench that day.)

" _Secare!_ "he heard himself speak. " _Secare!_ " Again.

The world whirled to white.

There was a silhouette of black and green, bolting, tearing. Reaching. And he had set himself on fire - smoke adorning air, gushing from the golden red of his hand. His trachea tautened to scream; but throat came dry for the air had turned to ash. He ached. His skull threatened to burst. And the spot of bright green was rain washing away the dust on his cheeks.

Draco Malfoy thought of death.

And fear gave birth to agony as he fell face first into the pure winter snow.

~x ~

The halls were filled with screams of burning men.

His brethren crawled and cried in a choir of clattering chains, while he laid underneath the gray light of the barren morning. (A skeleton across whom thin skin was draped to keep the bones from shedding.) The silver serpent was beaten gold against the crimson sheet; lion bright, illuminating the iron wall.

Death for Life

The reek of blood was fresh, yet older than the faint symbols traced into the ground. (And younger than the letters painted on the wall.) The time was nigh, and they were still far. (Closer, but farther. Puppets on the strings of a great master.)

 _Death for Life,_ he heaved, hearing the voice of the young Mudblood.   _Fools_ , he whimpered. The gash above the apple of his throat seemed to widen as if he were paper. _They will all rise. Little Freddie._ Bella. _They will all rise._

The wall was blown in a powerful gust. He could see faint silhouettes running to mend the gashes. (The Mudblood's hands were warm, painted in the blood of his laughter.)

_Death... for Life._

Seven seconds later, the Tower was swallowed in the white light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
